White concrete or maybe blue
Suddenly aware of the toes in my shoes and my shoe on the gas pedal I am tapping I miss the
sun I miss She is the moon & I am the often curled and lifted fist She is gravity if not
weaker somehow I am writing in this the car & the sky is reckless facilitated by / because of
I want to bring her to the nights like heavy fruit & I miss my water warped novel copy red
& black, left In an apartment moved out of two apartments ago let there be a belly in the
shower I'm sorry I'm sorry to countless babies unhad/unhaving I'm sorry I'm sorry to me
soft-faced in an unfamiliar apartment, a place called Daisy's I'm sorry I'm sorry to me soft-faced in the Wesleyan parking lot I'm sorry I'm sorry me walking hand in sweaty hand to
CVS through wet November leaves She's the sun she's the moon she is nervous she is loud
If we are as close as yellow lines to black pavement
We Pushed Two Beds Together To Make One Bed And Called It “Superbed”
We for a minute were the same (my fingers yours), but not
how we thought—your voice, my words. The same
in a church white and airy church, wooden pieces unimportant,
audience not. Three hammer-strikes, or something.
We had written something so good we cried.
I said How do you know what to do. We chased through pine trees
for some reason. Ducking under branches, there was jet lag.
There was an empty cup. There was the skin
of a large sea-fish, unseeing monumental eye. There was a boy
with long hair there was a church there was a chase. And how
did the teabag continue to tick: submit submit submit.
Alex O'Hara lives in Florence, Italy, where she is an artist-in-residence at Santa Reparata International School of Art. Her artwork and writing have been published in The Long River Review and Existentia. She sucks at remembering Twitter is a thing, but hers exists at @alexo_hara.