Welcome to Volume 4 Issue 1 of From Whispers to Roars. We are thrilled to be going into our 4th year with such an amazing collection of work. Sit back and enjoy it – all of our contributors truly sent us their best work!
5% of submission fees from this issue were donated to Leave No Trace, an environmental outdoor ethics nonprofit.
R. R. Noall
After a Year Without Lipstick by Pamela Viggiani
Resilience by Nancy Lubarsky
Today a squirrel dangles upside down from the (squirrel-proof) bird feeder. His back legs
cling to the metal perch. His front paws reach below to the caged seed-cakes. This could be
the one that we’ve heard shuffle above the bathroom on bitter cold days when the dog growls
and scratches. We’ve invested in so many contraptions (exterminators, too) to keep him
away. Yet he manages to bypass cones, screens, assorted blockades. My face is against the
glass, but hidden behind his reflection. So he remains for the moment. I kneel down, tilt my
head. We are eye to eye in our awkward contortions. I hear acorns are scarce this winter. It
might be like this for a year or more. His tail is long and full. He hangs on, makes do.
Grounding by Robin Greenler
The pudgy cloves lie in a straight line,
white garlic dots on black soil.
My cold fingers work the row,
tucking them deep, wishing them well.
This year I find myself on new soil.
Thirty-one farm years shifted
to new ground, with new horizons.
The soothing whisper of the ritual helping me root.
Tiny snow specks dance in the air,
as if I need reminding of nights ahead.
Garlic and I, we know this dance,
though the dance floor is new for us both.
It is a covenant between us,
every year we plant, water, coddle,
while they grow with gusto,
their fattest, roundest offspring saved for next season.
Carrying tradition through transition
holds me fast to old choices and
grounds me deep in rich wisdom.
Leaving me feeling a wee bit burdened
and a whole lot blessed.
How I Know I’m Not Alone in The Pandemic by Ruth McArthur
Because we drink coffee on the porch.
Because the old dog still wants a bit of his walk.
Because the young dog can’t get enough of hers.
Because old shows make me laugh.
Because he found a TV series he thought I’d like.
Because he was right about that.
Because there is supper to cook.
Because the bank statement still comes.
And the bills.
Because the tanager still clucks,
the painted bunting still sings,
the blue grosbeak still answers.
Because there are tomatoes on the tomato plants
harlem, street-lamp, tulips, love queen layla by George Stein
On Having An Orgasm For the First Time by Katie Bowers
For almost half my life now
I’ve not been a virgin:
Almost fifteen years ago, at sixteen,
I came to learn that the whole shebang was
a n t i c l i m a c t i c
over and over I was taught this:
at seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty
and why did I keep repeating myself?
Insanity is doing the same fucking
(thing) over and over again
and expecting [an orgasm] different results.
Suddenly without warning at twenty-one,
with a man twelve years my senior—
a man with a dragon tattoo on his calf
a penchant for cowboy hats
I’d come (for the first time) to see what
all the fucking (fuss) was about.
Crush by Alison Garber
One night I crushed up Xanax with a spoon and became invisible. Pills dampen our
screams in one bite. Sixteen is a weird age to be.
My little sister recently called her graduate school applications “intangible.” But what
does she really want? Our parental guidance was often a Picasso during childhood, blocks of
colorful triumph offset by mostly drunkenness and multiple personalities. Go to Harvard, they
said. Our mother doesn’t even know I’m a mom now. She held my hand under the kiosk at the
airport until my wrist turned white. I was only trying to take her home. Anger burns hot for
the women of my family.
Sometimes when I’m writing I wonder if anyone has read any of my poems out loud. I
hope they did it in the mirror and audibly cringed. On my typewriter are three lines of text, all
overlapping and covered in coffee stains. It’s truly authentic, and I must be an artist. I wonder
if I should apply to graduate school and if so, if I should submit a poem. But it’s too late to be
anything at all when you’re a woman of a certain age. It’s possible to burn coffee that’s sat on
the burner for too long. I suppose I should start investing but I’m screaming.
The last thing I want to be as a writer is invisible. But what do I really want?
Flexibility to be normal while maintaining a profile as a poet.
Ghost Song 4 by John Haugh
Imagine a dust
of silver glitter
puffs from lips
in extreme close up
as the word, “proud,”
emerges from my mother
or father’s mouth.
Either parent, though I’d prefer
the living one. Imagined
because I cannot recall one
single time, even when training
with the Olympic team
at age ten.
Fractional optimist me
hopes it happened,
once.
Mom still follows
the words “high school”
with “slacker,”
tempered by half smile,
as if that might slake
my gnawing.
Repeat by Caitlin Dunn
in Death Valley even shade was hot
where I could find it and the air
going fast was like standing behind
a truck’s exhaust, breathing in
and there are shells there, on the sand hills
two hundred miles from the ocean,
white like dog’s teeth and brittle
**
in a ghost town, somewhere
near Buena Vista it is too high
up for mosquitoes and the river is clear
snowmelt, runoff, rapid, loud like wind
mountains are so still and maybe
older than snow, than the white pines
we call trash trees that bend for the light,
older than the sound of water
and some of the stars
**
in the slope of the Natchez Trace
there is only a limb of sky
and it winds slow and gray
with fog like winter breath at night
and while I peel through
smaller than the bull thistles
a white-tailed deer behind the treeline
gives birth and there is no sound
at all but her breath
In The Open by Cynthia Ruse
Not One of Those Asians by Laura English
It’s 45 degrees and sunny when I park my black Volkswagen sedan in Kroger’s parking lot. It’s
the kind of 45 degrees that Ohio waits for in the winter and yearns for in the summer. Johnson and
Johnson has released their one-dose vaccine, and in mere days it will arrive in Columbus. For a year,
the Wuhan virus is ravaged the United States. The China virus infected American seniors. The Chinese
virus put front-line workers and their families at risk. The Kung Flu is killed millions of Americans.
But today, it’s 45 degrees, sunny, and there are three vaccines. While health officials warn us to remain
vigilant, I know I’m not in the clear. I put my mask on over my game face, and exit my car.
As soon as my foot touches asphalt I am swift to stand and give the door a firm enough push
that the door closes with a force just short of a slam. I glance around as I step forward heel-first, just a
hair further than I need to. This exaggerated step causes my hip to jut forward and up while pushing the
other down and back and when I repeat the motion with my other side, my gait becomes almost impure.
I pick up the pace of my sashay until my stride feels casual yet purposeful.
This is how an American woman walks, I think.
When my hard steps take me through the sliding glass doors, I take inventory of the bodies and
faces closest to me. I feel for the label on my tan Carhart beanie and confirm that its logo is fully
displayed, then give the bottom of my navy blue Champion sweatshirt a tug in case it had crept up. My
clothes now finely tuned, I yank out a cart and lean against it as I begin to slide toward the produce
department for fruits and vegetables that I intend to eat but probably won’t.
This is how an American woman dresses, I think.
My phone rings before I pass the first produce display, bags of grapes and clementines. I
consider them as I remove my phone from my back pocket, wishing I could trust myself to eat them
before they go bad.
“Heeeey,” I draw out the “ay” with bright sass.
“Why did you answer the phone like that?” my friend responds. Then, “Oh, you’re at the store,
aren’t you?” She knows the drill.
My friend and I slide into benign conversations about relationships, work, and family, but my
vernacular is unnecessarily abrasive. I have raised my voice and I know I’m too loud, probably
obnoxious. Where I might normally chuckle, I laugh loudly with big “Ah-ha-ha” sounds. I find ways to
substitute adjectives, nouns, verbs, and even proper nouns for the dirtiest curse words I can think of.
This is how an American woman talks, I think.
I’m an American woman trying to act and speak like an American woman; emulating a
stereotype of some subset that I can’t put my finger on. I behave like an exaggerated version of myself.
I’m not fundamentally different from my American character. I’m being cartoonishly me so that I look
like I’m one of you.
This is how an American woman behaves, I think.
Irrationally I feel like my fellow Americans, whether black, white, or brown, will see how I
walk, how I’m dressed, and hear how I talk and see that I’m one of them—an American. My walk will
make my eyes less slanted, my clothes will hide the yellow tones in my skin, how I talk will combat my
flat nose and round face. I’m desperately telling them: I’m not one of
those Asians.
Because this is not how an American woman looks.
Boreal by Jenny Bates
Sounds arrive in syrup-starlight, years-ago handprint catches
finally reaching the house, letting themselves in.
murmurs, echoes, clanks
rattles, blows
There is no mellowing effect of time in harsh climes,
only howls soften conflict. Bemused habits, cowls arise
from shadows, courtyard quiet.
clattering, tinkling, whispering
roaring, crying
Well beaten paths with bare ankles lined by wire-grass,
rush and run along roads ignorant, hollow and simple.
burst, hum, clatter
slam, thump
Peaceful solution comes with the thaw, unprintable
mutterings reverberate the jaw. Retreat to safety behind
glass walls. From hurling insults slush stuck to paws.
croaking, cawing, shrieking
pattering, creaking
The Visit by Stuart Gunter
She let the screen door slam
behind her, sat on the wooden
porch, her cut-off jeans riding
up her legs, her brown flannel
shirt tied up over her belly. A sick
and uneasy feeling. She drank
her root beer, read her book.
Lilies in the dirt track beside
the red painted lions and the bird-
bath. She shot furtive looks toward
the kudzu woods. She finished
her drink, lay her book down on
the planking. She remembered ghost
hands on her back. She thought
of her father, asleep in the lounger,
mom making tea at the stove,
chamomile filling the kitchen. She
held a gaze to the end of the drive.
Who was this misty spirit walking
to her, looking like an angel?
Shadow/Light & Two Trees by Stuart Gunter
Inner Peace by Benita Jane
I have become one with these roads.
I am entwined with these green-stained trees.
I am okay with these people
and the oversized seagulls prowling the beaches like starving gangsters
and the crows that run these streets
and the skunks that play truth or dare on the corners.
I am okay with the men I open my legs for
in search of daddy
sorting out my issues
and the way the women show me two sides to their faces.
I am okay with the job that leads me nowhere slowly but always shows up
and the summer that brings with it flocks of those who will never understand
and the winter that greys my world.
I have become one with this ocean.
I am entwined with these crashing waves.
I am okay with these people.
I am okay.
Okay.
I am.
LAX by Julie Labuszewski
“Let’s get married,” you say to me at LAX minutes before my departure to New York.
I’m speechless.
Is this a proposal?
Let’s get married?
We’ve never talked about marriage. Why now? Why not yesterday in your apartment
when you held me in your arms and we fell asleep on your mattress plopped on the floor? Or the
day before at Venice Beach when we sprinted into the ocean and swam out beyond the surf – the
two of us proclaiming to the City of Angels that our joy was more powerful than the waves
coming at us. Or when I called to tell you I got the job in New York?
Let’s get married. It’s casual, similar in tone and parallel in structure to “Let’s get lunch.”
It’s a slice of pizza on the boardwalk. There’s minimal effort involved. It’s more of a suggestion.
No follow-through necessary.
You can tell I’m surprised. Stunned. What’s so damn funny?
I turn away.
Sunlight floods the concourse. Travelers rush by. I feel the looming presence of the
aircraft on the tarmac, a vacant seat waiting for me. But I’m frightened. If I leave today, if I
board this plane, will I lose a place in your life – in your whimsical, playful heart – forever?
We kiss goodbye.
The plane lifts into the sky. I gaze out the window. The city quickly shrinks in size until it
resembles a miniature town built with Legos. I can see colorful houses stacked beside each other,
spacious green parks, red schools, and blue pools – interlocking blocks that could be rearranged
and reimagined.
Hewn by Barbara A Meier
Hewn from greenhorn limestone,
from the quarry in the pasture,
I peel back the overburden
like peeling the skin from a bad sunburn.
Under a denim sky, the earth is ripped
liked a gal’s best jeans,
patched with pasture and field,
The wind whispers in my hair,
brushing history from my forehead.
I am rooted like the rhizomes
of the shortgrass prairie.
It is the rock from which I am hewn,
hardening in Kansas sun surrounded
by the living grass of future generations.
Blur of Modern Life by Patrick McEvoy
Scary Movies by Frankie Soto
were my favorite thing to watch before bed. I grew up addicted to the suspense
of horror films. The musical score would dive in—base would start to rumble.
I would have goosebumps the size of pumpkin seeds
My hands were used as shutters during the final scenes—the gore made my stomach
churn. I now watch the news in similar fashion.
One hand covering my eye,
the other hand clamped across my chest.
Standing pat and silent.
Still can still be perceived as intimidating. Non-threatening prefers cardigans
over hoodies until the cardigan is too
West Philly-Will Smith & not enough Bel Air
There is a horror movie waiting every time a boy is the color of a fleeting sunset
every time he steps outside the door
steps inside a car—doesn’t drop to the floor quick
enough for a gun to remain holstered.
Peace is the seconds between
a loose tongue, a heavy accent, a nervous trigger finger.
Unaware he is the villain in every scary movie ever made.
Michael Myers
Freddy Kreuger
Jason Voorhees
Pinhead
Ghostface
Candyman
Emmett Till Trayvon Martin Breonna Taylor
The latter don’t get to keep coming back from the dead—no sequels to
be made. One day my sons blue eyes won’t be fast enough to run
from his Soto last name
his mother’s light skin will allow him to always feel safe where others
aren’t allowed to. I will show him the scariest movies so he isn’t confused
that his milk tone arms may make him look like all the slashers but his
bones are made of bomba and sugar cane—just like his Papi
Just like his Papi he will be a son of stolen lands, sons of stolen time
—mothers reminding them to drive careful, to be careful,
not knowing that careful is a prayer bungee jumping in her chest.
How many of the bodies left at Crystal Lake
had parents awake waiting?
How many of the bodies left at Crime Scenes
have made a mother’s throat a church?
There use to be a shrine of chills on my back,
popcorn butter lips & jumping at every unexpected
surprise. There is now a chill that doesn’t go away.
The sun has been barricading itself behind clouds
There are sons being buried who don’t match the color of clouds.
Since I was a kid I have been addicted to scary movies
but there is a real terror happening that I don’t have the
stomach to watch anymore
Devour by Alison Garber
I enter the white screen and play the ivory keys.
I devour books of poetry. I too want to be bigger than myself, bigger than pain. I too
want to put relevant sentences together, using words made of steel and wood, dividing my
time between what feels right and what doesn’t make sense.
My creative process begins and ends with my experiences. I am in pain, and writing is
an outlet, like a Swedish massage. It is hard, and harsh, but the pain is released and I can go
back about my day. Perhaps, even better for having done it.
I exist under a bell jar of thoughts that cannot go anywhere but directly to paper.
My brain fizzles like seltzer. The bubbles make me laugh, and I am often happy. My
writing is the deepest crack in the earth, where gravity sucks me down with each stroke on my
keyboard. I am not an unhappy person. I need to make sense of the rabbit hole, or the Matrix,
or whatever we call reality actually is.
Thoughts, like emotions, are temporary. I write mine down to feel the flavor of the
day. Writing, to me, is the ace of spades. It is what trumps everything else. It is not always the
winning card, but it is the reason we hold on to what we’ve been dealt.
Haiku Sequence: Winter 2020-21 by Mark Francis
red sunclouds fall down
solar face slipping failed mask
other stars heedless
this mulberry stub
might grow to be something: shrub
of berries, silk, jam
birds once nested loud
under my window ac
hope now chirp elsewhere
a borderland heart
knows only adjacencies
bare trees, dust, gringos
i’d rather starve than
not eat stars, nebulae, moons
–oh, never mere Earth!
Charcoal Abstract #1 by Steven Tutino
If you Wanted to Search For Your Soul by John Reed
Would you know where to look?
Would it be in the attic of your mind,
Where all the memories are stored?
In a box,
Or a locked trunk, somewhere?
Mixed in with family things?
Can you find the keys?
If not your attic,
Then you might have to look in the utility room,
Among your appliances and tools.
Mixed in with all those schedules, and commitments, and to do lists
That take the place of thinking — and feeling.
Where routine gives the illusion of security — and reality.
Maybe your soul slipped behind the water heater, or the washer/dryer combination.
Or maybe the Sock Monster ate it.
You might look in your study,
Among the papers scattered on the desk,
Or the books and magazines resting on your bookshelves.
Or in your filing cabinet with your bills,
Or stuck in with your mortgage, or your rental agreement.
Or maybe you’ll find it in the dictionary, or the thesaurus, or the investment advice,
Or the self-help books at the back of the desk.
Maybe you could search your apps, or Google it.
You could check for it in Facebook, or YouTube, or in a LinkedIn connection, or Christian
Mingle.
Maybe it’s with some gamers, or some other “game-changers.”
Is it in your TV, or your smartphone, or in Fox News?
Or preserved by your elected officials, or the NRA.
Your soul might be in your church,
Where you should love your neighbor,
as long as he’s like yourself.
Does the God you look to happen to look a lot like you?
Have you found Him yourself; or did you inherit Him?
Does your God have things in common with you;
Or with everyone?
And if you find your soul,
How will you know it’s yours?
And what will you do with it?
It might be best to just leave it alone,
For now.
Shoved Through The Cracks by Brian Rihlmann
all I know is
one morning
I drove by like always
on my way to work
and they were gone
the ground scraped clean
beneath them
a makeshift village reduced
to a pile of tents and sleeping bags
awaiting a dumpster
a horde of workers
in hazmat suits
downtown I see
another weekly motel
boarded up
another one torn down
places of last resort
vanishing
in my old neighborhood
another new apartment building
starting at 1500
for a one bedroom
you ask
where they come from
that’s the easy part
I wonder
where they go
if they ever find peace
down the hard road
Alfie The Eagle by Chris Hannas
My dream ever since getting this job has been to wear the costume home. Other people
get to wear their suits or uniforms during their car rides or on the bus or the train. Why shouldn’t
I be afforded the same luxury? Why do I have to dirty a separate set of clothes each day that I am
then responsible for cleaning? It’s an absolute injustice.
When I asked my boss about it the first time, he thought I was joking. To him, it was
ludicrous that someone whose entire day was spent playing the role of a giant eagle would want
to continue that for one minute longer than necessary. The guy who had the job before me only
did it for two weeks before quitting. I’ve been here 14 years and plan to die here. Really. I would
love nothing more than to die in this suit. That’s how much I love being Alfie The Eagle.
What I represent is the city of Alfredtown. How exactly they came to adopt an eagle as
the official city mascot is a matter of some debate but most historians trace it to a band of
travelers who came here in 1854 loaded with eagle feathers to trade. We have no eagles here.
They are not native to any place within a couple hundred miles. So when presented with the
chance to obtain some beautiful, rare material such as the feathers, the people of Alfredtown
went nuts and got them all.
The travelers moved on, but in short order the feathers they left behind became took on
legendary qualities. They are stitched into hats and woven into dreamcatchers hanging on the
wall. The majority though are framed in the manner one would if given a key to the city or
similar civic honor. The original feathers are all numbered and well catalogued. If you try to sell
one, the buyer and everyone she knows will immediately be able to tell if it’s genuine and tell
you each of its prior owners right on back to the original traveler who brought it.
My suit has five original feathers, making it one of the most valuable things the city
actually owns that isn’t a building. It’s even worth more than the mayor’s car. You might think
that would make it a target for theft or tampering, but again, there’s no market here for selling
one of the feathers if people know it’s stolen. You would be run out of town in a worse
punishment than anything the court system could decree. A thief would have an easier time
kidnapping the mayor himself and trying to get some cash for him on the black market.
I’m not originally from Alfredtown. I came here one sunny spring afternoon during my
senior year of college in search of a peaceful study spot. The campus is only 10 minutes away,
but even that short distance was large enough to feel like I was in a different world. I didn’t
know anyone here and nobody knew me. I could sit under a tree, soak up some rays, breathe in
the sweet wind of the season and watch bumblebees bounce from flower to flower. When
graduation day came, I was confronted with the sudden freedom of realizing I could go anywhere
I wanted and do whatever I wanted. My degree was in communications, a field easily applicable
to all kinds of jobs.
The one I applied for was officially titled Special Assistant to the Mayor and had
basically no job description other than generally doing whatever was needed around City Hall.
That sounded fine to me, I seemed fine to them, and two days after the interview I showed up for
my first day. The dress code meant I had to ditch my wardrobe of comfy shorts and tank tops I
had grown accustomed to in that last warm semester and trade them for pant suits and heels.
While not officially a public-facing position, I was moving around the building so much that it
mattered I look as professional as possible to the citizens who were there to get some kind of
help.
I loved the job. One day I would be answering the main phone line and directing people’s
calls to relevant departments. Other times I would head out with a survey team and find out
directly what the people thought the mayor should be doing to make Alfredtown better. But it
was when Jimmy quit that I truly felt my calling. His departure was abrupt, with no two-week
notice or courtesy given. He just didn’t show up one Tuesday, and when we called him, he gave
us an address to send his final check and hung up.
That particular day was no problem. There were no official events and the suit was
conveniently scheduled for a cleaning anyway. My task was to go pick it up at the specialty shop
50 miles away where we send it twice a year. They do nice work. I walked inside and when I
held the eagle head in my hands I got the same feeling I did when sitting down in the Alfredtown
park that first day. It was a release from everything I thought life could be. I was happy before
that moment, but standing there I realized I hadn’t yet understood what happiness was. I knew
there was no going back to a normal day at the office.
As I started driving back I called my boss and asked if he had interviewed anyone to take
over the Alfie role. He said he hadn’t even posted the job yet.
“Why, do you want to do it?” he joked.
“I do.”
He of course thought I was kidding because he was. It took a good minute for him to see I
was serious.
“Sure, whatever,” he said.
He later told me that he assumed I would only do it for a week before asking to return to
my old role full-time. I was really good at that job, and if he had known my true desire, he never
would have let me leave it. But I did. And my entire soul was ignited by the new possibilities I
felt in each day.
Being Alfie has a lot of similarities to the old job. I am doing something different all the
time, interacting with different people and bringing a different vibe everywhere I go. The way I
approach an elementary school assembly is different from how I am at the senior center. The
spirit of Alfie never changes, but let’s just say his energy level can vary. While I can roughhouse
with an 8-year-old, I have to be super cautious about even turning around when I’m among the
older crowd so I don’t accidentally knock someone over with my tail.
My commute is not long, but it’s an unnecessary hassle imposed by the rule about only
wearing the suit during work hours. I almost never spend the day at City Hall. Sometimes there
are bill signings or special meetings where they want me present. But most of the time it’s those
events out in the community. The way my boss figures, we have the suit, so why not spread civic
pride all over, all the time? What that means is driving 10 minutes to work, picking up the suit,
then driving 10 minutes somewhere else. How inefficient!
When I brought this up to my boss, he was sympathetic, but unmoved. I was rather
disappointed, mainly because the convenience isn’t even my main reasoning for wanting to wear
the suit more. But how can I bring him the argument about it being normal in this country to
wear your work uniform all the time if he won’t accept the far easier argument I already
presented? He’ll think I’m kidding again. Or worse, if he does understand, he’ll probably think
I’m crazy and will want to like sleep in the suit. And of course I’ve thought about that, mainly
that I would need to sleep standing up so the feathers wouldn’t get all matted down.
So for now I show up every day in my pant suit and heels, pick up Alfie and go where
I’m going. I find a bathroom or empty side room where the door locks and I switch personas
from serious business woman to symbol of my adopted city. And deep in my heart I hope that
one day I can just be the thing I want to be all the time.
Memphis Mood by Cheryl Comeau-Kirschner
January Tea – Ginger by Kate MacAlister
in a perfectly measured box
I lay with Bluebeard’s girls
the last one still warm
her lacy black pants
dangling from the end of the bed
barely wide enough for two
and as you blush
I start to dream
of the tales
laying here
all your lost muses
maybe once sisters
singing with the seagulls
in the wild void
of your marks and stitches
“That’ll only take 2 weeks to heal”
(What an awfully long time for just a scratch)
Love looked better
when it was more than
just a little bit
I listen deeply
dying breaths
and
nothing left to say
Exhale
Kiss
Break me
Open.
Self Portrait As an Early 2000s Romantic Comedy by C. Riley
I wake up and it’s all the same.
I tuck a handful of sheets under decorative
pillows. They’re pretty enough to show a sigh
of my personality, but not too bold. I’m careful
to never be too much of anything. I swipe a tight line
of beautiful across my eyelid before opening my closet.
A museum of effortless coordination. Everything is pink,
and it’s all on purpose. I’m miserable, and no one
knows. I kick open the fridge while scanning
the front page of the newspaper that was delivered
by the sunrise. The counter is clean, like someone’s wedding
dress stuffed in the back of a closet, begging
to be used. I have a habit of never staying in one place
too long. Some people call it quirky, and I have no reason
not to believe them. I take one bite of golden toast,
and then I’m at work. I’m sure to say hello to the person
behind the desk downstairs, the person delivering mail
in the hallway, Steve from marketing one cubicle over.
I’m nice to everyone all the time. None of them know
that I’m single — my least favorite personality trait.
My ear is always stuck to the receiver of the telephone,
and I still have time to split a piece of cake in the breakroom
for a secretary’s 45th birthday. I leave for lunch
and never come back. And then, of course,
it starts to rain. Suddenly an umbrella shadows everything
I had deemed terrible. Just to my left, there you are,
laughing to yourself as if nothing could ever be so perfect.
It’s then that I forget about my urgent plans
to call back my mother. To finish that load of laundry,
heavy in the basement machine. I couldn’t even say
why I bothered doing any of those things before
now. Today becomes its own holiday.
We walk to the bar down the street, where we’ve spent
every empty Friday but have never met. You order for me,
and I like that. You ask all the questions, and I like that, too.
The exhaustion of being my own person
is over. Then, you press a napkin into my palm.
Your phone number bleeding through the folds.
I can’t stop smiling. I fall asleep in an instant
and don’t even wonder if anyone loves me.