Curtain flicker: your eyes, no—my eyes, nighttime windows: women walking half-naked back-lit big screen TV, what am I watching? No one made a Netflix special of your smile, I blink the digital world out of focus. I want to drown you in gin and other spirits that have gone out of style, but I can’t get the taste of tea and chocolate out of my mouth. I’ll make my tongue deletable if it touches the buzz in your throat. In the plainest of terms, you remind me of too many other people to be yourself. You’re an endless scrolling of thumbnail entertainment. I react to you in loops. Sometimes you respond with ink reflected in your iris. The women never remember to shut the blinds at sunset. I teach them how to kiss without meeting your lips.
Posted by By Jessica Coles November 25, 2021
Last updated on December 6, 2021
Jessica Coles (she/her) is a poet and editor from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (Treaty 6 territory), where she lives with her family and a judgmental tuxedo cat named Miss Bennet. Many years ago, she got a B.A. in linguistics that she currently uses to write love poems. Her work has appeared in Prairie Fire, Moist Poetry Journal, and You are a Flower Growing off the Side of a Cliff: a chapbook about mental health and resiliency (League of Canadian Poets chapbook series). Her first chapbook, unless you’re willing to evaporate, is available through Prairie Vixen Press. She often tweets micropoems and creative encouragement as @milkcratejess.
Talk to me about the letter H