Diary Entries
Taneum Bambrick
Out a tall window
one drift boat turns toward the lake.
I love you
if I don’t think about
who you were before me.
When I worry you are angry
I am angry.
You aren’t thinking about me.
Someone’s favorite music
in the car. We watch Dallas
through a bent railing.
In a parking lot
head-sized rocks thrown
to the weeds.
The paddle of a prickly pear
snapped down the center.
White like Styrofoam
leaking whiskey
I receive a message where B claims
you aren’t a real artist
because you don’t write every day.
He was the first man I slept with.
When I pushed him off, he came beside me.
The stem of an indoor plant
thicker where it bent
across the ceiling.
Because I asked, A once admitted
that I was not the most attractive person
she had been with.
She had better sex with someone else.
I cried in the bathroom at the coffee shop where I worked
until I realized honesty was something I’d never felt.
You push your palm against my face in bed.
I imagine this is you asking for space.
I am trying to warm up your nose, you say.
We laugh so hard
but I have shown you something.
Originally published in Moss: Volume Five.
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