December 26, 2018You’re Bound to See Someone You Know at Walmart
Back home, I see you filling up a cart,
but we pretend we don’t know each other,
and I remember how we practiced forgiveness
more times than we should’ve. How you
texted me that we should stop and I agreed,
but after a while I heard the pronunciations
of your hips like a Swede saying sorry up north,
pointed and everywhere. And in the laundry
room, we broke down. You saying just
a little and quiet quiet but your parents
couldn’t hear us over The Sopranos, and soon
we were back in the garage, agreeing we didn’t
feel so guilty only doing it once in a while.
And now, when you grab the off-brand bag
of cereal, toss it on the reams of diapers,
we forgive each other by saying nothing,
by checking out in separate aisles, listening
to the rocks kick up under the wheels
of our carts outside the automatic doors.
from #61 - Fall 2018