by Alex Stolis
When I was sixteen, Dad almost sold the bar, I crushed
on the buyer’s daughter: nineteen, blond, and way
out of my league. I was gone-daddy-gone.
She asked if I knew where we could score some kickin’
weed, and I made a joint appear from the inside pocket
of my field jacket.
Stoned, she kissed me, I was too scared to cop
a feel, too inexperienced to find the batter’s box,
much less get to first base.
Tonight, you drape your leg over me, say you see that boy;
dodging and burning your own B&W snapshots, know
how I want to hold faith for broken things.
You write in spells and incantations, see the firmament
over earth as a fragile butterfly wing, believe we’re the sum
of all the lives we’ve ever lived.
That girl’s name is long forgotten, along with her voice,
the scent of her hair; watching you put pen to paper,
I feel the merging of all the versions of me.