We go to buy juice-box wine and
Cheetos made of fire. Their
dust is glitter-light against our
skin. I love
how we laugh down the aisles, wear
Our calves deserve to be kissed
by gorgeous men, but instead
we have fluorescent lights
and each other. Outside
are too many trees to count and a river
we stand in. Shadows of
the question, what to do next,
shimmer on the surface until
we break them with
curved and tender feet.
This is the first time
I’ve ever felt young,
a small sea, with someone
who believes me when
I call it a small sea. What I mean,
they know: something to love we
won’t try to hold.
Meriwether Clarke is a poet, essayist, and educator living in Los Angeles. She is the author of the chapbook twenty-first century woman (Dancing Girl Press 2019). Recent work can be seen in Prairie Schooner, Gigantic Sequins, The Michigan Quarterly Review (online), The Journal, and elsewhere.