A queen size, pillows heaped. And the one chair in the corner
never sat on for the mound of clothes. Nor the floor seen properly
or the top of the desk with its lamp’s bent stem, the shade a green
bloom. The stew of this room, all its walls covered in fashion
we paged through and then carefully tore out to paste within easy
view. The tape rewound to hear that one song again and again as
we said, Look how and If only.
Downstairs, your parents in the kitchen made pasta and sang some
song known by heart because of. Down the street, two windowless
bars and the skaters jumping the curb, hurling themselves into
the street with their quick catch.
And you and you and me – as if riding in a palanquin.
Kelly R. Samuels is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is the author of the chapbook Words Some of Us Rarely Use (Unsolicited Press, 2019). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous journals including Salt Hill, SWWIM, Sweet Tree Review, Permafrost, and RHINO. She lives and works as an adjunct English instructor in the upper Midwest.