403 Readings | 4 Ratings

The Wetlands

Our kitchen table is sinking in the middle.
It’s from Wal-Mart and made of cheap vinyl 
and was meant for cards, not three years of
cut-rate meals with real tears and served 
with Smoking Loon wine. 

I promise to always hate you from the bottom
of my heart. It’s a cute, small hate but shined
bright as a diamond,
like the one you didn’t buy me
because, hey, Wal-Mart again. 
The ring plucked from a plastic egg on April Fool’s Day.
I’ve been tricked my whole life,
and now, when I’m not tricked,
I’m so disappointed.                                                                                                               

Last fall I felt better. I walked
one street over and found a neighbor’s old
headboard. I carried it home, where you made
it into a shrine of our sad lives: here is where
we will put the mail. It has a secret compartment
in the middle for our fights. The blonde wood
will mock us and float like an island in a sea
of mid-century mahogany. I love it.
I love love love it, you said.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
I think about later, after, the end,
whatever. I think about the mountains
in Eastern Oregon and their fucking old fashioned
names: Mt. Emily. Mt. Fanny.
I miss their broad faces.
It wouldn’t be so bad to rest in the wetlands,
so close to the teenage make-out spot, where tongues
find each other and bodies come pricked to life.

You snore in the bed that lies on the floor 
while I put my body together: this is my hand, my foot, 
my rib. It’s raining and not quite light out. 
Maybe I’ll drift home.
Posted 10/12/18
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