Over the static of
brushing my teeth I
hear her chanting
to her cell.
“Hi this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
She deletes and records again.
“Hi this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
It sounds the same to me but she tries
again again
with just little changes.
Her tone of voice.
An emphasis on a syllable.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
We walk to lunch in the rain’s lull. Her
rubber coat, too heavy on its hanger, a gown
at a casual dance, squeaks as she swings
her arms.
This,
and so much else,
makes me smile as I walk in the gravel
beside her.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
She gets drunk at a party I didn’t want
to go to. My heels sink in grass and clay
as I help her,
stumbling,
saying she’s horny,
into the car.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
We go home—
(our small, shared space)—
and then we are in the shower stall together, and
her breasts are small and soft
underneath the soap.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
In my bed, my lips
on hers,
I hope I make her cum.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
Days after, she gives
me a look
to say
I had better have forgotten.
“Hi, this is Brittany. Please leave a message.”
Oh God Brittany,
Oh God,
God—
“Leave a message.”
