Again
By Laura Bender
Whiskey and coke
is the woman’s way of falling in love.
I couldn’t help it.
It was dead before the truck hit it.
I come back to you and hold your face,
the sun an illuminated cantaloupe.
My hands around your jaw, we sleep.
Soon they will have the technology to torture
by stimulating these certain parts of the brain.
In the morning the wall is brilliant.
The owl falls like a wind chime. It hits
our eyes and wakes us.
Sometimes I wake wrapped around you,
sometimes I wake alone.
I always have this feeling of waking alone.
This is the fate of young monsters.
The fish you swallowed slid
into the dark and peculiar parts of your innards.
The clean sound of leaves pressing
on the windowpane.
The sound of the silver alien flapping in your gut.
We put roses in the vodka bottles
and named our toilet Aqua Marie.
The brilliancy of this will not last.
The universe’s aurora-filled mouth
wakes the neighbors. I wake the neighbor.
I ask him where to get more,
scratch his window with my fingernail,
please, I’m coming down.
Laura Bender graduated from the University of California San Diego
while studying writing and neuroscience. Her work has appeared or is
forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, The Dirty Napkin, Chiron Review,
Vertebrae Journal, and other journals.
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