To the Girl Posing for Senior Pictures in Front of Used but Nice Office Furniture
By Andrea Krause
It took nearly 40 years to drive by myself
on the street, but tonight there I was
flaunting both stances—my foam green
Subaru, passing by in a practical wave.
Did our eyes meet? I was too distracted by lapsed
glare, by luster déjà vu. Would you believe
I signed those Doc Martens over to thrift,
just to buy them again last year?
I see what your posture already knows:
we requested water but received rock,
honed ourselves tattoo sharp, to needle
this mug onto the mountain
we borrowed. If only we burrowed
where we couldn’t be shuffled into
four modes, card deck open. We sang,
head, shoulders, knees, and toes,
until we rhymed our body into
additional curves, took our place in
the line of ivory pawns, a fawning
marionette. My lips press straight,
shriveled dredged worms. They’ve crawled
across jaundiced beams, lapped up
salty quarries. This radioactive
jolt, call it double-life, call it
half-life. Tonight, we unravel
like weather. My feet, pasty blocks
of hard white suet, holding cold,
refuse to brake.Andrea Krause lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Penn Review, The Inflectionist Review, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter at @PNWPoetryFog and at andreakrausewrites.com.
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