The only bubble
soda left in the ravished-
by-the-quarantine
CVS store was
piña colada LaCroix.
It tastes like sunblock.
Every sip I take
creates this catchy scratch in
my throat’s swollen back.
5 minutes later
I know I’m dying because
I forget this fast
reaction happens
no matter what I do or
don’t. In this way my
attempts to flatten
the curve with seltzer water
gulps reminds me of
everything I did
or do with you. You wanted
my hands against your face
when we kissed or dressed
in moonlight brake lights, Uber,
Lyfts and taxi cabs
provided our hiding
places in. You confided
selected stories
to your friends so they
never knew if our love was
blooming blossoms or
discarded vases
and long-stemmed boxes. Untie
the narrative you
described with your hair
touching eyes to me. Stories
you know end or start
in hours recording
lines and FaceTime. The frightened
truth isn’t what you
remember or believe
or depend on others to
direct you to. No,
the worst part in not
touching and retouching our
surfaces is what
you no longer ached
for or longed for or knew in
all your heart. It’s what
you pretended had
never happened or came true.
It’s what you forgot.
________
Kurt Cole Eidsvig is a poet, writer, and visual artist whose work has earned awards like the Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant and a Warhol Foundation/Creative Capital Fellowship.
Art: “LEAVE DON’T” by Kurt Cole Eidsvig.
