A Month of Poetry, Day Five

Louisville Kentucky

where alcohol

magnolia trees

forbidden love

bloomed on every corner

in the small theater

in a play

a song

the chorus leading into

the bridge made the small

blonde hairs on her too-thin arms

stand up

she can’t

to this day

recall the song’s name

dust and wood

fresh cut

the stage lights cooling

no longer hitting their

spot

curtain metaphorically

down

but still she couldn’t hide

(everyone knew)

an old couch

in a backstage corner

part of the set

for the play about

the four guys in a band

was ripped and worn

with perfect divots for curling

up in

after the show

(cast and crew gathered

in the bar)

she would sit

in the couch’s corner

the taste of energy on

her tongue

the boy

who was not her boyfriend

would find her

cheeks blushed

soap and stale Guinness

eyes clear

depths for diving

they would sit

twirling bits of fabric

torn from the cushions

in their

steady fingers

staring into the

darkness

together

the space pulsing between them

waiting for the song

(everyone knew)

to begin