thought my glass smelled like puke
or maybe the whole bar or maybe
the guy leaning over me no he
smelled like cologne smelled like
this other time at a bar smelled
i hope it follows you, circling like a bird of prey. i hope it sticks to your shoe like dog shit. i’m not doing well, and i think you should know. i hope this email slithers over the tile on your kitchen floor and sinks its teeth into your ankle.
I pull my curtains open, lean on the sill,
sweating. Headlights bob uphill toward me.
Randy’s car, rattling tin an hour late,
swerves to park across the road: flicker
through the windshield, thumps of rock radio.
A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.
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