Tell me something


Tell me something I don’t know. Everyone who holds the line is not brave, and everyone who gazes over channels is not a dreamer. And I am neither. I am eating paper in the back of a dark cab and filing through phonemes. The girl in my past who slept near a mummy was another version of me. The boy in your past who shot a squirrel in the gut was another version of you. The problem is that the girl woke up without prompting, and the boy cried instead of laughed. When I give the cab driver my cash, he does not notice the bite out of the corner of that 5, the ink smudges under my nose. I guess I didn’t warn you it was monsoon season. I guess I figured you could tell by the rain.

Elizabeth Wilcox is currently a PhD student in the Literature & Creative Writing program at the University of Southern California. She is an editor for Gold Line Press, and her poems have recently appeared in such publications as The Indiana Review, Hot Metal Bridge, RHINO, and The Cortland Review.