by Mercedes Lawry
I talk about Ian Fleming
and James Bond.
He talks about Lord of the Rings,
the movie, gently pinches
my arm and stabs.
Fleming had a talent for intelligence and sex
and I read his books
on the sly, as did my brother
who procured them until
my mother confiscated The Spy Who Loved Me
before he’d read it and now
he’s dead and I have no idea
if he ever did read it.
My arm goes sore. The vaccine
moves inside me like a dozen rivers.
The pharmacist loves his movies.
When we were children, my brother and I
were friendly. Then, we weren’t.
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Natural Bridge, and others. Thrice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she’s published two chapbooks, most recently Happy Darkness. She’s also published short fiction, essays and stories and poems for children. She lives in Seattle.