May 2015 - Comments Off on Mica Evans

Mica Evans


Head to head with him, Summer
to Fall, and we can’t hear each other.
I hurt. I call it off.
But walking through Vermont, I cannot
help but imagine our life
in a Colonial home, maybe off
of Route 7, yellow, with brick
accents and room for the kids. Oh,
and his thick
Israeli hands withdraw
after minutes of clasping my Black,
fat hips which he saw uncovered
at the lake and still held firmly.
I press
my face into his neck and inhale. I lie.
I hurt. He likes
my body so I write him
poems, delete them, have sex
with people that aren’t him, and his thick
Israeli beard still catches my eye
from up the hill. I swig. I yell.
I will not continue to sin against myself! Oh!
And I just don't want to be alone!
And I want to be able to say this!
I don’t want to be alone.
I want to be able to say this.


Scientific Awakenings in the Great North East

Standing in a drizzle, equidistance between each of their homes, the man and the woman speak, but struggle to find the right words. The man takes his cap on and off, almost touches the woman's shoulder, and says, “Seeing you now. Missing you here, before you leave.” She replies, “Yes, your voice. Right in front of me. And these feelings.” The woman fiddles in her pocket with the lipstick she had worn, in hopes that the man would notice, and recognize that he loves her and loves her, the way a folk singer might. The man says, ”Your hair, your lipstick. Wow, your voice.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. The woman looks down, fluttering, sees her reflection in a puddle, and notices the bags beneath her eyes. “Seeing you now, I know I’ll miss you, even before you leave.”

Thomas Circle 8:49AM

The women, in knee length skirts are under 5 foot 5, sighing
into their bluetooth defibrillators, do not move quickly enough for my taste,
cannot be brisk enough for risk of ripping skirt or being
afraid of all these people on the street, do not speak to me
on the bus or even at the coffee shop, I am not
their cup of tea.

The women have taken great care, in glossy bathrooms, tiles
still white and mirrors in 3 different locations, to
silkify their hair, their skin, their nails, ward
the pain of pale faces on display, and glow
beneath the awnings on 13th. I think they can’t see me;
when I ash on their boots, it’s not malicious ‘cause I have nothing to do.

Published by: in Issue 1: Fall 2014, Poetry, Volume 71

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