I am Tonya Harding
before she invented rollerskates.
When she can’t find a thing worth buying,
I look for twice as long.
You are not my husband. Your arms
blunt their violence in performance fleece
and do not swing a bat of any kind.
You might be a Neon streaking
doughnuts in the slush
of a parking lot I’m afraid to cross.
You might be a sweepstakes to Maui.
Let’s say my heart is a birthday cake
stuffed in your glove box,
that you’re a barista
unconvinced by Christmas
and guilty of less than love.
Let’s go to Sears. Touch
the scarves, smell the soap,
get away with it. Let’s shack up
in a bathroom and sit cross-legged
on the sink, steal sugar packets
from your coffee stand
and suck Sweet ‘n’ Low straight
from the pink.
[Photo credit: Heather Malcolm]