No Good Decanter

We had our mouths open
for the grapes we found on the side
of the road. A penny you tossed
in each puddle I left behind. The mattress
was hard, but we had no trouble
sleeping. Feeling like I do not have to go
to sleep, but I must. The seatbelt
is stuck. I trust you. You heated
alphabet soup and wrote my name
in the sky with your finger. A month
that couldn't end with anything
but a storm. The cloud is shaped
like November. What does it mean
when you part your lips? A terrible
example of living. The sins we write
after the bar closes and we're emptied
onto the sidewalk. Closing our arms
around each other. Buying a rose
from the woman with frizzy hair.
It was only one dollar, but you didn't
have that much. When you say
my name I can't hear your voice
or see the velvet of your tongue. If
you're reading this, it isn't about you.
I only used that moment to talk about
something bigger. We never drove
to Massachusetts together. We never stood
outside in the rain. I don't like to wear
a man's coat around my shoulders. I am
not that easy to love.

Alexis Pope is the author of Girl Erases Girl (Dancing Girl Press, 2013). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Sixth Finch, and Phantom Limb, among others. She lives in Ohio where she co-curates The Big Big Mess Reading Series and is Contributing Editor for Whiskey Island Magazine. Sometimes she posts things here:

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761