or, intimacy is the flit of someone’s thumb against the hollow of my wrist,
unthinking + casual. their hand draped across the small of my back.
reaching up to move past the bangs, strung together by last night’s grease,
no sign of flinch. these are the pieces i miss the most. being passed
the baby spinach. having someone to lose in the aisles. pecking
my way back towards them like a baby bird who fell from the nest.
in the dream, the fluorescence is glinting off their steam pressed collar. in
the dream, i lean against the cart, arm lolling against the cold metal. in the
dream, the rasp of their knuckles grazes towards the drop of my shoulder.
in the dream, robert cups my cheek in the midst of the produce section.
i think i would curve into whatever shape
was asked just for this quiet of a moment,
surrounded by clam shells of molding gooseberries.
in the dream they say, of course. of course i am still here,
as if it were ever so simple. as sure as the bunches of chamomile
i collect in my arms. as sure as the vase back home,
waiting to hold them.
Lip Manegio (they/he) is a white, nonbinary dyke, poet, bookmaker, & designer. Their work has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Puerto del Sol, Gordon Square Review, Tin House, and been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. They serve as editor in chief at Ginger Bug Press & are the author of We’ve All Seen Helena (Game Over Books).