Poetry Collection

The Perfect Men
Meredith

With her, it has always been the same:
she finds the so-called perfect men
bearing heart-shaped boxes.
Valentine’s Day, birthdays, Christmas
filled with packaged truffles and crimson
roses—but the thorns.
Years of paid dinners and still
she hungers for something more
than later, rinse, repeat.
Until him.

Now it’s the way
he plays guitar, how he inspires
her, something about spare
change in a jar, hashbrowns, wine
straight from the bottle, how
she’s forgotten the so-called
perfect men.

Before him, I saw her look
down, shiver in the cold,
startle, cry. She said
she felt lost, but now I see
her write and smile
in the silence, and while I wish
I had someone to steal
t-shirts from or interrupt
me while I’m speaking
just to kiss, I like
to know she’s traded
in roses for lilies.




Observations at the Shell
Jennifer

Stocking Sun Chips, chocolate-covered
everything, my ponytailed hair sticks
to my skin. Then she trudges in.
She eyes the frozen candy bars,
picks up Twix and cradles
it in her long hands like glass.
“Is that all for you today, sweetie?”
“And a pack of Camel Lights.
I’m trying to stay healthy.”
We laugh but I can tell she
hasn’t really smiled in a while.
She is always alone. Like me.

Time. She walks in and trailing her,
a young man with hands
in his pockets. She ignores
the ice cream, steps slowly up
to the counter, and I place
the cigarettes before her. She beams,
reaching behind her
to grab his hand.

For months when she walks in, he holds
the door, she grins. When the door
holding stops, his car still waits
for her outside. She is not alone.




Oak Mountain

I took you to the dam—the terra
cotta and crimson bricks, cobblestoned
warmth on our feet. The water halts
here—collects, slops over the lower
part of the dam when you jump.
You dive in, deny the cold
that settles after rain, motion
for me to follow. Instead, I think
of the path—blocked by hulking
bees, pampas grass, rocks jammed
into torn skin, and I don’t
jump in after you.

The second time we met
for Drew’s memorial service.
Under the pavilion, we were swarmed
by fifty people dragging memories like lame
feet. We lit candles blown out by the wind,
talked over each other—who knew
Drew best. The storm chased
us, skin water-logged.
You wrapped your fingers in mine,
rubbed one nail on my palm like picking
a guitar, told me “I love you. It’s alright.”

We skipped the petting zoo that third
time, went straight to the boats. My dad
always insisted on canoes but the fading
blue of the paddle boats drew
me in and you agreed, though now
we know how hot plastic scorches bare
skin. Still, we shared sandwiches,
bottles of water,
and this time, ignoring the cold,
we both jumped in.




Yard Sale
Justin

Worn guitar picks, coffee-stained
hardbacks, flowered sofa, plastic
vases with earth clogging the cracks,
red t-shirt, picture frames, candles with black
wicks, blankets that smell of summer
picnics and horse-trampled grass—
things unused for so long they
crowd the garage, the room
where they want to build a library,
the guest room of an old house.

I pick out a few scratched CDs, carry
them up to the girl with her hair
in a ponytail. “Five dollars,” she says,
glancing at the boy, twenty feet away, face
hidden beneath a yellow trucker hat. He is running
his fingers over a just-bought guitar, hesitant
to let it go. As if she’s just called
his name, he looks up at her.
Her lips part and she smiles,
doesn’t count the five ones I’ve handed
her before stuffing them in her back pocket—
as if money was just change in a jar.
She touches her lips like the only
thing she really needs
had already been placed there.




The Perch Café

Can’t you see us at the Perch Café?
Flushed red, modern glass, like a giant
old telephone booth but with ginger
maple bread pudding inside.
My laptop on the ochre
table, me, ponytailed and watching
the cursor blink, ignoring the editor’s red
ink on my three hundred stacked pages,
the novel I wrote, the date at the top—deadline.

You rush in, smelling like mahogany
and bronze, the cologne
of guitars and music, order a scarlet
glow herbal tea—kiss me,
kiss me, kiss—and people
shift, clear their throats.

Can’t you see us Brooklyn-bound?
Not on our way but tied down,
studio-owned and book-contracted.
You sit across from me, close
my computer, lean in
and all I see is your lips,
forget about the ink, the date,
the crooner in your studio,
kiss me, kiss me.




Quit California

Come back to me, back
to where the wind stirs
reds, yellows—
away from palm
trees that never wilt,
the fountains cloud-blue and raining
because the sky can’t.
Forget gathering
the rest of your things,
the boxes of movies, the Dali,
that old pair of jeans
with the hole in the knee.
Come home to the tree
you taught me was a maple
in your front yard,
the weeping willow,
the four-o’clocks waking,
to summery September.
Come home to making
love in the morning, showering
together, cups of water
by the bed, tangled limbs,
strained breathing, my words,
your guitars, our wine-
drunk nights.
Let my whispered words
guide you back
to where I wait.



What I Have
Kerri

One sand-sunken
knee, diamonds unseen
under seashells—then a ring
on my finger, encircling the bone.
Our house, stuffed shell
pasta, sleeping tucked
in each other’s arms, milk
thistle bouquets, words
written in steam on the mirror, no
separate laundry days.

What she has: an empty
finger, frozen dinners, a lonely
calla lily, time
occupied by homework,
dreams unmet, stacks
of empty cigarette packs.
Picture memories lie
lifeless in a shoebox taped shut.




Outside the Marriott
Jeremiah

“Do you want some food?”
One hand-rolled cigarette, uncertainty,
benches, homelessness, loam, memories
of ‘Nam, stink—I know them. What
I don’t know is why this boy
wants to help. Most who stay
here are only
specters passing through, eyes
tracing cracks in the pavement.
They will be gone
tomorrow, home again,
don’t care about me
sleeping on this bench.
But he tells me his name, Nick,
buys me a hamburger, offers
papers to roll my weed in, listens
to me sing songs I wrote
for my old band. Nick
laughs, shares, but every
now and then looks
at his empty hands, glances
out the window at nothing.
He doesn’t have to tell me
there is someone he is missing.




Fall
Nick

Acorns snapping
under my shoes,
the smell of bark everywhere.
October, and I’m home.
I think how appropriate
that the air will cool
around us while
we stay in patches
of sun spilling
between tree limbs,
the tree I taught you
was a maple—but
the sun doesn’t keep
me warm. Your skin,
your mouth, your hands
keep me warm. We
lay in bed, legs
tangled, my fingers
in your hair, yours
tracing my stomach
and I think,
who needs the sun?