if there isn’t a Titanic remake with timothée chalamet and saoirse ronan then god is truly dead

i don’t believe for one second that saoirse would

try to jump off the back of a cruise ship for any reason

but if i could see timmy striding out to save her, perhaps

i could suspend my disbelief.

like i could imagine that she might end up engaged

to some douche for societal reasons, but not that she would

solve it by finding out how a body handles rudders,

her jawline is too strong for that, my love for her

must keep her afloat. but why have movies at all

if we can’t see him look at her out of the top of his eyes,

all lashes & pools of hazel, if we can’t see him

sketching her, his fingers messy with the charcoal,

or watch her spinning in steerage in a sequined dress,

chugging beer, chest heaving & curls coming loose,

or him scampering through the engine room, before

concealing them both in the cab of a Renault, the velvet

seats on their naked skin, what’s the point if we can’t

watch him as he does what he does best: adore another

but as Jack.

Aly Pierce sits facing away from her desk in a wooden chair. She is wearing a blue and white tie-dye hoodie and her chin is in her hand. Her book shelf, several plants, and a tea-dyed string of phases of the moon can be seen in the background.

Aly Pierce is originally from Doylestown, PA and currently lives in Beverly, MA. Her debut collection of poems The Visible Planets (Game Over Books) and split chapbook with Cassandra de Alba, Cryptids (Ginger Bug Press), both came out in 2020. Most recently, she has been published in the Red Ogre Review and Peach Mag. You can find her online as @instantweekend.