More than a Game
In my dreams, I am
male, blond and tall, striding with a lightsaber
across digital sands.
A guild interviewee told me women make good
waitresses. My dear friends still laugh about it.
Some hold their lives close
but others, we’ve gotten drunk and lost in a new city
together. Picked them up from Boston Logan,
crammed three in the backseat of a white
Mazda. Became who I would fight for, die for,
in this real life. Without
cool space tech or laser light beams.
From our little group, the truths I carry: someone’s
graduation, a texted picture of a newborn.
$10 to buy a cat toy
she can call hers from Winnipeg, a (whispered) heart
condition, a broken marriage. Meeting at a Rays game.
When we’re old, unbound by commitments,
I imagine us
wandering around a beach together,
complaining about the loot, bemoaning
so-and-so’s dps. I expect only this:
a warm, starry night,
a communal meal, tender sport.
Maria S. Picone (she/her) has an MFA from Goddard College. She loves cats, noodles, and oil painting. Her poetry and translations appear in Mineral Lit Mag, Red Alder Review, the Able Muse, and Vox Viola. Her Twitter is @mspicone, and her website is mariaspicone.com.