Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear
The Beaver sun defies all shade trees,
soaking into the road, and the car, and
the I-15 overpass up ahead. I watch
you in the side mirror, your hand out
the window, your hair in the wind,
all that golden light on your
soft lips and your gay, gay mullet.
You're the most Brooklyn country girl
I've ever seen, trying to decide between the
city and me, and I want to catch your
gorgeous eyes in the side view mirror and
scream that you don't have to choose.
I want to whisper that when you go back
to New York, I'll be there, that I'll send
you soundtracks for the subway and hand-drawn
maps to the bodegas with the best breakfast
sandwiches to eat in the middle of the night
and I want that version of you and this
one and I don't believe they have to shut
each other out.
I look at you both as the version of me
who forgets that the Empire State Building
needs a foundation and as the one who
could schedule the rebar and dimension the
cover depth. I reach for you both as the version
of me who would gently touch the
freckles on your arms and tuck flowers
behind your ears and as the version of me
who would fuck you against a wall
until you believed that maybe I actually
had a dick.
And I look at both the version of
you who knows every employee at the Beaver
Creamery and the version of you who has
By Kira Coleman
Biography:
Kira Coleman has a Bachelor's Degree in English and Creative Writing from Fordham University. She believes firmly that if something is both true and important, you have to speak it in the best way that you know how --- which is why she is a poet.
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