BY RACHEL STONE
We are in a constant state of falling
then the parasol flips: sudden
leaves on the statue
wind-whistled through Post-it notes
Are we ourselves again, are we—
Under their skirts—the trees
like my college roommate, found you before
you learned the secret to not
drowning. Walk on water.
Dusk like dusk in Gambier made you wistful
so I folded the page—you’re not making sense.
bought and sold a car only to find it broken across the same statue
where I left you last summer.
Love isn’t elder vales, the soggy marsh of
peat and chivalry
just statues where
you’ll press your forehead to monument
Proust in your back pocket
(Tell me something I don’t know about Chicago)
Honestly: to hone thistle
whittled to the grit of bone and—
I’m not you, darling. I breathe fault lines and perhaps—
We rose to the roof like champagne bubbles
gasping for it
it—elusive, it—ephemeral, it— a three hour-requiem
for your shoulder blade
I wore my Bridget Bardot
dress [you didn’t notice the duct tape]
New York didn’t miss me
my exodus from taxicabs the taste of elevators
Salut au monde! Paris
an absence of office supplies.
The train, unspooling:
I can’t write your name
so I’ll clasp months and galaxies between right-angled
wrists I must confess, I’m making this all up
absolution in lunch lines maybe
But how am I? I am so many things.
You said: I like the idea of wrists, not their bend
I heard that in a poem once
[Are we repeating ourselves again, are we—]
Tell me something I don’t know about the sea.