Updated: May 2, 2019
You book my flights on Saturday afternoons. You have your head
to your mug and I have my mug to my body. Don’t look at me.
We are lovers that live down the hall. You sit and you sift
through my resting manicure and dancing childhood and soft sheets and
we’re talking, pickle to toe. Let me ask you about Harry’s girlfriend or poke
you about my favorite sorbet. This is our radio station and I love
to bounce. I know your hair would be curly if it was long and I wonder
what you looked like as a baby. Send your mother a picture
of us. Do you remember when we were running in
and out of my cheeks? I got hit by your truck but
only felt the small cars on the highway.
- Rachel Rosin, Spring 2018