if I had a column called ”death & spritzers,”
would you read it?
if I sent you my playlist called ”single & fabulous (exclamation mark),”
would you listen to it?
if I told you I hate it here,
would you believe me?
would you tell me to stick it out
or call me brave when I walk away?
if I put more structure into this whole thing,
would it actually be a poem?
could I actually say I gave it a try?
if I never turned my video on again,
would you miss every emotion
zoomed in on my face
or would you only miss Peaches
— and be honest —
wouldn’t you?
if I said I still felt just like Jo when she tells Marmie
she’s afraid she’ll never fit in anywhere,
would you call me dramatic
would you roll your eyes
or would you just nod
& say
”Makes sense,”
like the bartender did, when we told him,
truthfully,
that we were doing fine, just talking about death
over Breezys
on a Saturday afternoon in January
Happy to be out, terrified to breathe in
unable to bear the thought of going back to the apartment
— not yet! what a rationale! —
death & spritzers
olive oil lemon cake
the plague
Brunch, on a Saturday afternoon.
ARH 