I meet someone I should’ve known before last night
and flirt like a couch thrown from a dormitory window
while he kisses his girl, his ex-wife. im no good @ this right?
I reply to your text, like you’re waiting, smoking outside,
for my bus. Like it’s not a gross exaggeration from a ghost.
So, I panic and steal a book on Marie Antoinette last night
because it’s pink (so rich she wore pigeon blood, so white
she bled eiderdown, snow) and you both got girls sucking pillows
and I got a guillotine from Ikea. I’m no good at being upright,
so I kneel. I rip apart, bleed, congeal. Bad idea #3025:
you text me i may drink n drive for a bit like I’m home
waiting. I lose my keys and cool. I turned my heat up last night
and down. I fill my flask and I run away by bus and I
come home early. I forget who’s who so I don’t reply dont
do this 2 me. I mean, shit, I’m no good at this, right?
You got me mixed up. Do I flirt? Fuck? Kiss? Steal? Fight?
No, I’ll drink til it hides my scent. I’ll fall off the grid. No,
I know: I’ll meet you on the train again like it’s our first last night,
I’ll write it’s over before it begins. Because I’m no good at this. Right.
Karen Locascio is a recent graduate of the University of Massachusetts-Boston with a MFA in poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Arsenic, Spry Literary Journal, Cider Press Review, Paper Nautilus, and others.
© 2014 Window Cat Press