She Comes In Barefoot

By Chestina Craig

it will not come in
The way the TV told you
Dressed in designer clothes
Or the football captain touting you on their shoulders
Maybe— joy does not
Glide down your staircase
In a formal dress maybe—
She sheds sequins in her dance
She comes in barefoot, the screen door
Slapping her heels at the time change
In sunlight you fold into the sheets
On the teeth of sharks
Maybe she bites
Is a papercut from your favorite poem
Comes through on the blood & paints you
A picture, maybe— joy
Isn’t the peak
But is hazard lights off the road
& hanging all your torso out in the night
That particular quiet
On the 3rd floor in the bookshelves
Maybe she makes a fucking mess
Is almost too much color like a foreign sunset
Holds your screaming hands— holds you
Screaming. Maybe you didn’t invite her
To the party. Doesn’t give a shit about champagne
She shows up anyways dressed
Like a flood and asked you
If you want to go somewhere else.