No one needs another poem about the monotony
of heartache. We play rummy on your bedspread,
dream up names for imaginary ice cream shops.
The Twisty Scoop.
We swim only once all summer. You read
on the couch while I clip glass tiles that fly
across the room. I’m working on a mosaic
that I call the heartache box. You don’t ask about it.
Uncle Raven’s Jelly Sprinkles, you shout
from the kitchen. Add it to the list.
I’m reading someone else’s horoscope
for the fifth time. It tells me again there are two motivators
for change: love and pain. I cut out the horoscope
and keep it in the sharp and glittering box.
Waffle Cone King? I shrug. You are the first person
I’ve dated who doesn’t have a dream
about living in a van. This is the first time
I’ve found the idea appealing. You’re working on
a fellowship application while I strap on wrist guards
and go roller skating. Lap after lap, I imagine sending
porn clips to your work email, but will send poems instead.
Love, I begin.
Sugar Lips is a real ice cream shop that sounds dirty.
You make stability look hot. Turn down your volume
before opening this attachment.
