(sorry, but) That’s just what it takes to write a poem 

In the morning we wake. You lie there statue still

Like a mosquito squished against the wall

Or the break of morning creeping under the curtains. 

Or maybe I’m mistaken, and you’re still sleeping.

We rarely wake at the same time, anyway. 

And I’ve forgotten how to read your gritty exhales

Churned from your mouth like milk into butter.

What’s the difference between sleep talk and cream?

Both are nostalgic. Premonitions. 

Sometimes, an echo rumbling from the future to us, from us. 

A moment materialized in the sweet huff of your breath

As you dream of lazy love tunnel escapes

And two-strawed milkshakes

And storybook scenarios preteens beg for. 

Sometimes, this premonition reeks of fresh fallout,

A carol of air raid sirens and busy bunker silences.

Catapulting questions to God, anticipatory grief sets in.

The bomb’s gonna drop. 

Any second the bomb’s gonna drop.

What of us, then?

Your lungs cannot release another plume of smoke.

My mind cannot withstand another mushroom cloud illuminating my bedroom wall. 

You wake, at last, and provide no pleasantries. 

My mouth puckers at your lemon-lined lips

as you kiss me. 

I feel camera eyes pointed at us but turn and see nothing.

What’s the point in acting, then? 

If there is no audience to watch our second act conclude?

God, I wish we could earn an award for how well we play house. 

You need a third act, loose ends tucked into 

the woven fabric of your perfect patchwork narrative. 

I need you. Need you like Eve needed an apple peeler. 

Unlike her, I prefer my sins easy to consume. 

I look for consistency. I like that in a story

About the Author

Allison Hendershot is a Creative Writing major who procrastinates poetry to write essays, make beaded bracelets to hand out at her next concert, and fall into another two-week Minecraft phase.