by Justin Lacour
The first cold night in south Texas
I split an omelet and hash browns
with a girl so high she thought
Waffle House was shaped like a bowl
and if she let go of my arm
she would slide away from me
into the world of strangers
I put my cigarette out in what
was left of our eggs and
we couldn’t stay but there was nowhere
we had to be so we went out into the night
I don’t remember being afraid
just the cold in her fingers
the stars and the wind
when I forget all the stories
I don’t want to forget
but when I forget
remember us this way
the way You remember
opening my eyes the first time
the second time the third time
Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of five chapbooks of poems, including Hulk Church (Belle Point Press 2023).
Hawaii Pacific Review 