hunkers near me, all legs and grace,
smoking menthols, drinking whiskey.
She’s from Texas , and weighs about as much as guitar.
Her black hair falls all the way down to her ass,
“Being clean is not an easy choice, “she says, “
when the choice is between friends and sobriety.”
I ask her everything: mostly about holding on and letting go.
She tells me I should learn how to fly. Literally. Become a pilot.
makes a fluttering movement with her long lanky fingers.
can’t imagine navigating a plane.
How would I balance all that metal?
What if I crashed into a mountain?
Texas women are always healthy and in step.
I’m from the Bronx, unsteady and explosive.
I tell her something inside me is still broken.
says she is tired of excuses.
Says I should do something scary.
Lie a little, fall in love,
run towards a tornado, drive drunk.
a hopeless poseur,” she says with a smile.
Blows a circle in the air with her smoke.
I love her too much to give her away.
but she says she can’t risk being
in one place for too long,
makes her ‘comfortable.’
I want our lips to touch,
but they never get that close.
I roll a cigarette and stall her,
tell her I promise to learn
the basics of aerodynamics.
Promise to put spells on men,
promise not to waver,
promise to lie, and fuck, and kill
small things with my hands,
anything to keep her from leaving.
Published in #32 of Crack the Spine Magazine.