I left my melancholy
on the kitchen floor, dusted
goodbyes on my way out, spit
in his cup, hoped
it was enough to drill
fate into our last smoke, feigned
sadness, said love, and let
him miss me in the driveway.

You could say softness wasn’t
our thing, if you stood around
long enough, but we slipped
up plenty, drained the kegs
in secret, confessed over cherry beer, cider-
whisky, and instant message.

The winter was better to us, gifted
chances to warm up, and we praised
the seaside for it’s rude
weather, relentless wind that stacked
us into the same car, minute
of pleasure, longer than his
girl spent apologizing
for the pressures. This time he said

he wouldn’t be caught within a mile
of Kim Marie’s, stayed too late most
nights, missed signals
the rest, mixed gin
and tequila, chased good
conversation with too many
beers, kissed me one too many

times. Since she got rid
of the fence, Kim hasn’t been
the same, sets us up
for failed attempts at lingering, spills

her guts right onto our
shoes, and never leaves time
for cleaning up. You could say

the bar is a bad place
to meet, but we walked over together
every time, ran eachother off
the sidewalk, swapped cups and took
a knee with whatever was left
of the weddings we worked before
stepping inside. On our last

night, before the kitchen, after
the fence, he called her a whore, held
my face in his hands like a mother
and made me promise
to call. We exchanged small
things, thanked one another
for the fun, and cursed that fenceless yard.

Contributor Bio:

Natasha Wolkwitz is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Columbia University in New York City. Her chapbook, Riverdog, is currently available through Bottlecap Press.