Every man in light blue gym shorts with a little shine reminds
me of you, of us, and how on summer days we’d swim down the sidewalk
two fish in the bowl of Manhattan with nowhere to go and no need for cash.
That green duffle bag, that old baseball cap, and the torn t-shirts you moved in with that night after many nights of naked arguing and ordering out, who did we think we were?
I don’t want to go back to the apartment where I broke every dish you refused
to wash. I don’t want you back in my bed, half drunk and sleepwalking
to pee in the closet. I want to fly into your ear and live in the orange
wax and buzz around until you draw me out with a small light or tweezers. To be
a dog at the foot of the bed who watches the door while you dream of me before
I was a dog. Maybe I’ll call you after I die and tell you about Julia’s staph infection
or Donna’s idea to sell dirty shoes on eBay to dudes with a foot fetish. I don’t think you’d answer; that chip is not chocolate or ice; it’s an impossible mountain.
Bernadette McComish earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence, and an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language from Hunter. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review
, Sunday Salon
, Hospital Drive
, Rag Queen Periodical
, Poetry Leaves
, and she was a finalist for the New Millennium Writers 41st poetry prize. She teaches high school in Los Angeles, and performs with the Poetry Brothel, healing one John at a time with words and glitter.
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