A poem about a night in October – this year and one year before.
Written by Alejandra Jimenez
Edited by Yoko Zhu
I called your girlfriend ugly yesterday
But I did not mean it
Her lips are small
Like yours
The tube of tobacco
Now lying between them
The softness of the night
Molds into jelly
As your hands
Outline the strips
Sown onto her shirt
And your lips
Flatten in preparation
For hers
The same lips that gifted me
A series of your nothings
Hands that held my wrists
“Too tight–
Please stop,” I begged
But not cried.
Never cried.
Take it off, you said
As the sharp October air
Pierced my chest
My arms
My stomach
Cars dissolved into mist
Fleeting howls gathered
Alongside them
My shirt, now grasped
Between your fingers
“Give it back,”
“Give it back,”
The honking had drowned
My skin
The street
The shout
My shirt now filled with dirt
Melts into the concrete
Into nothing
Me and my shirt
The same
I called your girlfriend ugly yesterday
But I did not mean it
Though I wish I did;
I just hate her shirt