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      May 27, 2016On Coming HomeLisa Summe

      Domesticity is of all our pets together
      in one room. Plus me in my plaid pajama pants
      and you in no pants. Some people take off their shoes
      when they walk in the door, but you,
      the first thing you do is take off your pants
      because to you, pants = work, and you are home.
      There’s cat litter stuck to your feet,
      there are my dirty socks on the floor
      again, and there’s the floor mat
      our guests rarely wipe their feet on.
      So the cats scratch it up. So the dog naps there.
      There’s a time where your mom doesn’t knock
      on our door for Sunday breakfast again,
      a time where your sister tells you to please stop talking
      about anything related to sex. I want to fit in
      with the women in your family,
      but I am too reliable. You can count on me,
      darling, to wink at you from across the bar
      ten years from now. What if every time was like
      the first time? By which I mean our lovemaking brings us
      to tears in a stranger’s bedroom and we don’t know
      when we’ll see each other again, don’t know
      what the moon will shine like when it’s been cloudy
      for weeks. Just know that I am a garden of boomerangs.
      And Ingrid Michaelson is singing all the while.
      I listened to that song again where the girl can’t help
      falling in love, as a reminder that television
      is not a stand-in for affection and neither is
      the bowl of cereal one of us silently pours the other.
      We crave surprises. Once I mailed you a postcard
      from the mailbox down the street, which is to say
      my gratitude is the longest day of the year.
      Summer solstice is the way your body shines,
      which is how my mouth says I was here.
      I make you promises, but I don’t
      say them out loud. We both know marriage
      is overrated. Instead, matching heart tattoos
      on our pointer fingers. Instead, a six-pack
      of Sierra Nevada in the fridge,
      a homemade pizza. So much of love
      is consumption. So much of my appetite
      is bottomless. I’ve been running.
      And, for once, it isn’t away.

      from #51 - Spring 2016

      Lisa Summe

      “I am a feminist poet because I am a woman who loves women. My autobiographical poems, while often celebratory, also explore the challenges that come with identifying as a lesbian: homophobia, familial rejection, appearance norms, etc.”