Glycerine
Allison Wachtel
I saw it in your room
but I didn’t think you played
It was slathered with stickers,
like someone had taken the fast food receipts
and T-shirt logos
and saline beer bottle carpet stains
from the parties my neighbors threw
that the skinny coughing lamp
pretended not to watch from my window
and had slurped them into a guitar
You never mentioned it
but I knew what I heard
The pistol-eyed sirens on your forearms,
the thumping burnished bullet that scoffed at wind
and edict, and perhaps physics
(because we were having an adventure)
and the cross that you never talked about—
the cross that was not my star—
blazoned on your chest
I’m still not sure what happened
with the door closed, lights on, roommate home
but I noticed your clean counters
and how your apartment smelled like Oklahoma chili
and how you asked why I wasn’t smiling
Then something poured out of you and your guitar,
and I sat in twingng silence
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