On a night of slow dissolving sugar,
a glass of warm beer next to candy shots
topped the melting pit of sweet in the depths of his cologne.
That was back when I thought he thought I was something,
at a bar riddled with secrets and lost ends of citrus
Cut masculinity encircles coy softness and
conversations to prove that I am less in discomfort.
tart trajectories for an end game that’s expected
but let it happen anyway.
Self doubt is a man’s fridge full of pizza pockets and condiments
that leaves you questioning your need for
fruit and yogurt and half-eaten bags of salad.
He liked rum and coke without a straw.
None of those things were changeable.
Bar orders ring reminded as I scout for finds,
those hollowed out yellow gems still waiting
(dry and preciously pulpy)
half-cut skinned lemons in the back
armoured and dried from days in apathy
Disarm your expectation
but remember to share the process:
#decay for those on a similar search.
here is a shot of my lemon
his dangling arm cutting corners
We both want something from a person,
extract cloudy juices in a trickle bitter on the rim.
so here it goes, “to the two of us.”
blank bodies positioned to fill
a dash of freezer vodka
and clink goes your health.
Angela Caravan lives in Vancouver, BC. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Landing (post ghost press) and was 2nd runner-up for Pulp Literature’s 2018 Magpie Poetry Award. Her work has also appeared in Longleaf Review, Sad Mag, Reel Honey Mag, and Screen Queens. You can find her on Twitter at @a_caravan.