after getting caught staring, twice

Here we are again. I am holding half an acre of Michigan
in my left hand, the map in soft focus behind us.
You, you are Pacific headband & Ohio heartland,

touching Toledo to your chest like it wasn’t a place we’d ever said aloud.
In the attic, the bats are unfolding awake. Your look is fenceless:
coke bottle glasses, eyes wandering behind the rims

like tropical fish. I do not notice the short frets of your spine in this dream,
do not think to fingerprint your bedrock, do not feel the rumbling
of honeypot ants gathering crumbs down the length

of my torso, waiting for the shiver of our first winter together
to salt & pepper shakedown decades later, no. In this dream,
our knees bristle against the carpet stubble

& I do not notice the humidity hugging your top lip. Your smile
is broken, & the moons of my thumbnails slide
between the folds of the Midwest.

—MEG DAY

Meg Day is a three-time Pushcart-nominated poet, nationally awarded spoken word artist & veteran arts educator who is currently a PhD fellow in Poetry & Disability Poetics at the University of Utah. Meg hails from San Diego by way of Oakland, where they taught young poets around San Francisco with WritersCorps & YouthSpeaks. A 2010 Lambda Fellow & 2011 Hedgebrook Fellow, Meg completed their MFA at Mills College in Oakland & now lives & writes in Salt Lake with their sweet, dumb dalmatian. You can find Meg’s most recent work in ZYZZYVA, Drunken Boat & WITH+STAND.  www.megday.com


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