by Callie Crouch

and I sink
into that booth
with you,
my soggy shoulders and
dumbbell thighs
holding us in place like
sandbags
in the crack
under the front door
during a hurricane
stuck in
space, oh! Just eager
to be everything
I’m not. I’m with you,
I am, and I promise
I’ll lean in just
give me a moment
I can feel
your frustration
tickling the back
of my throat when I
breathe. It’s been
hours tonight
and the whippoorwills
would sing, “it’s always
like this, isn’t
it?” You sit
and cry out for my
hands
telepathically,
as if they could rise
on their own,

as if I’d want them
to.

Callie Crouch has an MA in Writing Studies from Saint Joseph’s University and is attending law school at the University of Colorado. Her poetry and fiction appear in numerous journals and anthologies, including Barbar, Roanoke Review, Coffin Bell, Olit, Volney Road Review, Quarter Press, Bear Paw Arts Journal, Half and One Mag, and Barely South Review. Callie is from Florida but lives and writes in Colorado with her cat, Idgie. You can find her at calliecrouch.com.