2019
My kiss skids off your lips. You have this habit of always enfolding me, rocking me back
and forth, your fists dormant
on my back but still clutching
the cloth. I’ve never stepped
into waters like these, but now
I’m knee-high, letting the liquid
laminate me. Narcissus tilts
towards his reflection but you
are nothing like me and I am
nothing like you which means
something good. In the rain
Chrissy Teigen’s sequin gown
is glinting. I don’t have cable
but your fingers are soft pelts
of hail on my arm. I change
the channel from a family
passing casseroles around
to another watching television.
Today Tomorrow Next Week
After the first time I saw you I came home to a mouse,
a thick gray line on the trap.
I didn’t cry. Instead, I crept
into the shower and closed
my eyes, thinking of the syrup
in yours. Each drop parachuted
down on me as I thought maybe
I shouldn’t see you anymore;
there are buildings collapsing
in bellows of crashing plaster,
rivers driving their knifed bodies
through canyons, and oceans
enfolding everything at the end.
The mouse chirped to nothing.
Then, the neighbors who share
a wall with me pressed the 6
button on their blender. I bit
my lips down on my smile,
wondering if you would touch
me but knowing we have time.
Lake Vargas is a regular contributor at Royal Rose Magazine. She primarily writes poetry and creative non-fiction. Her work has been published by Empty Mirror, The Cerurove, and Homology Lit, among others. She tweets at @lakewrites. More of her work can be found on her Tumblr, @stonemattress.
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