[Associate Editor, Britt Bustos: Christian traps us within the mirror memory of an American childhood – walking Takis, Erykah Badu, and dancing skates line the page to insert us within the reminiscence of a simpler time and simpler truths. While this poem appears a simple reflection of memory, the speaker weaves between an innocent past and a questioning present: one which alienates who we wish to be with what we realistically are.]

 

imp pulse 

(toward a playful nudge) 

 

sucking up the water from my eye 

 

he performs a burp i mime inhaling it

i remember the Erykah Badu movie 

not her movie but of sitting in his car outside

the theater, crying laughing about a baby Badu

being told she reminds people 

of their grandmothers. 

 

earlier he tells me if i died he’d check my eyes for

wetness—suck up the tears and take each with him

as souvenir. i say that’s okay as long as he displays

them on a tray, like Lucy. or something better to one-

up her, to respect the sanctity of her bit. 

 

he remembers the island where we ate grass and

made Takis walk. where he gave me a piece 

of gum and asked if i’d ever written a poem.

i hedged my answer before pulling up pages 

on my phone for the first time, not realizing it. 

a reading on the bank before pushing off. canoes. 

 

pushing pixels into the screen with my shoulder—

a sewing machine. in the seat of the outfit i wore

that day. i stood up and left the outfit behind me.

a shell. 

 

today he sends me four poems invoking other

people. they remind me of us San Saba river rats,

drying off in armadillo hour. holding space for the

neighboring pair—two deer with no shame 

in staring. 

 

so different from this townhoused day. day that

loosens rubber boots from a blanket of ice.

overnight they became planters. the quarter-inch

dusting of snow packed in like miracle grow. 

 

powdered donuts! why doesn’t he put on skates and

become the car. why don’t i put on skates 

and dance around them. i want to dance with

everyone i see. i hope that’s what we’re doing. 

 

eliminate: plurals to generalize (these days, as to

this day or this week) 

 

it’s night now. Ursula Le Guin stupidity hour. 

i press play on the last twenty songs you gave me.

it’s February 1st. closer still to Rod McKuen’s

prophetic year gone. but i’m calm now. a day of

talking. i’m talking more than ever sometimes 

it helps sometimes it twists. 

 

not the way Willow’s tail twists three fourths

of the way through each revolution. 

 

i want to come back and cook in the kitchen behind

the shiny new lesbian bar. only come out after last

call. maybe you’ll still be there. i want 

to know when we’ll see each other next, so that i’ll

struggle to fall asleep the night before and look

disheveled. 

 

i sat under the Peace Pavilion writing to my mom

while she corralled the dogs who wanted to chase

ducks. as if she were within earshot and listening. 

 

i heard you walk behind me in slow footsteps.

maybe taking a picture or just waiting. so i turn

around, see a figure, and in shyness say “hey”

through my sunglasses and turn back around before

I can register a face. i hear a “hey” in return and it

sounds like you but when i turn back around you’re

gone. the woman across from me asks if i’m a

writer. she says “maybe we’ll see you again

tomorrow.” is everyone an angel? she gives me 

her gloves. echo soft.