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memorial day

Zoe Cunniffe

we sat in the booth like we used to, crossed our legs & laid 
our white-cloth napkins across our laps & sipped our ice water
while the sidewalk dog strained on its leash. it was the same &

it was not. the waitress’ mask had calla lilies on it & she looked 
for a second too long at our red mouths. the silverware was cold 
to the touch, coated in phantom fingerprints, & we talked about 

nothing & then we walked home, crowds congealing on the
charred asphalt, a parade of honking horns and waving hands. 
no tossed candy this year, no children’s lacrosse teams & 

marching bands wheezing for breath, no barbecue on the back 
lawn, sprawling up and down the back porch steps, but last year 
there was nothing, and next year there will be something again, 

as if there was never an aching gap in between. 

didn’t we pray for it once? the resuscitation of these teeming 
streets & weaved fingers, and with it, all this terror coiled so neatly 
beneath the same surface of dullness.

when the world wakes up

i will oversleep,

        soggy sunshine baked across my blankets,

lying in that summer swelter 

        until the walls burn yellow. 

i’ll wipe my eyes       without expectation— 

the same stale waking, 

this midmorning hypnosis, 

a toothpaste glaze across the roof of my mouth.

       the chatter of keys,      the turn of the knob, 

and then— 

         hand laid across lips,

     choking,       heaving,       staggering       

       onto fresh-laid earth.

will it be clear     from the touch of tainted air 

that this light is a fever,  

             golden with static electricity? 

will we brush shoulders,      soaking in that

          sizzle-shock, that   lurch-away?        

a wildfire raging, how we pound our feet 

on the gas,     dowse ourselves 

      in the rhapsody     of the radio,   palms chafing 

on leather     and rubber         and skin. 

take me to a crowded room.   broken glass

and beer stains,     age-old crumbs; 

this glittery wilderness,           these heavy lids. 

drive me home       with other people’s voices 

 ringing in our ears, 

light-stains burned into our corneas.

this afterimage—          something new 

to flash in the background      of our dreams.

you can use the front door now, 

          slide your hand all up the railing, 

suck the air in through your teeth.     

      let’s lie on the floor,       remake the rhythm 

of our voices. there’s a shudder between us—

     you’ve seen what i’ve seen.         you’ve danced 

with blank bedroom walls,        rubbed your skin 

       ruby,          spilled antiseptic down your throat. 

you don’t look like you did a year ago. 

 there’s a new set of snarls in your hair, 

a new flinch in your footsteps.

you didn’t always sink your teeth 

into the shape of the sun bobbing       

over the rooftops,       the chimney dug into its gut. 

you didn’t always reach up,      frantic fingers 

scraping stimulation from the clouds. 

you didn’t always hold my hand 

      this tight,

but now you nearly break my bones.

about the writer