by Glen Armstrong
She held it behind her back, and the lights dimmed. The world wore orthopedic shoes. What was missing seduced; what was left sedated.
Was it still as red and round as a cranberry? Memory has its way with reality. It seems like yesterday: we had ditched calisthenics to smoke the cigarette she had hidden in her sweat sock. Was it a sweat sock or a sleeping bag? We tore the tags from shirts and mattresses.
She wanted me to choose, to commit to one of her hands. Half of us walk around empty, our warranties voided, longing for what we never wanted in the first place. We wanted everything. All at once.
Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His latest book is Night School: Selected Early Poems.
Hawaii Pacific Review 