A blue scarf can’t cover the hickey exploding
eggplant across my neck – and when I haven’t met
his eye in days, not able to shake the snakes
from my face when I see him, he invites me
for coffee. It will only get worse if I delay –
he persists, coiling like acid
in my stomach. When we meet,
he’s bewildered by my apathy,
clutches his love for me. I’m an argument
he thinks he can win – how a body
can be got and once gotten,
the heart with it. But I only said ‘yes’
because you say ‘yes’ when you are oceans away
from home and he has already started anyway –
His fingers coddle his cup of tea, as if
they’re delicate, not strong enough
to bruise. I cord out the words:
we’re better as friends. Any explanation
but the real one. He tells me I’m confused,
will surely come around.
He is patient.
I stare at the bagel by his elbow, his wiry
body still grunting in my head.
I crave the exit
that doesn’t come and never comes
even when we walk out the door.
Rebecca Connors was raised in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. and received her BA in English from Boston University. After living in multiple cities, she is back in Boston where she writes poetry and works as a digital strategist. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, burntdistrict, Bird’s Thumb and Dialogist. Find her on Twitter at @aprilist.