What I’d Say I went out into the world and you weren’t in it and my life was like a telegram STOP like a heartbeat quick and shortfelt I lay in sun parks under iron and watched the spider-metal creep across my skin I was coreless dangerous in the place you were not in. I want to talk about illusion— how the yellow flat of Iowa never stops how the sun glares but it never gets hot and we roll up car windows and talk. It could be a different windy city It could be a different garbage can I could be a different sweet-eyed little girl, and you could be my rock n’ roll man We could exist forever in ponds by suburban golf communities, in college kids’ Range Rovers, in Friendly’s or Denny’s. We could be immortal that way.
A blues bar, where we tried to forget we were white, and it felt deep and real, schoolless, potless, and you put up a fight when the man slapped your back, when he bared his straight teeth, when he said (his belly rumbling, a paper bag of oranges) “You don't know the half of it, kid,” And you'd really believed that you did. On the ladder your legs were soft Your eyes passed over mine, they missed On your face was a mustache In my hand was a dandelion You were not the boy that I first kissed.
I love and hate men who are friendly and drifty They open their faces, like tomorrow is coming.
Elizabeth Bachner-Forrest ’96 recently completed her manuscript, How to Shake Hands with a Murderer. She holds a Ph.D. in sociology from the New School University where she teaches courses on exiled artists, youth culture and social crisis. She lives in the Meatpacking District in New York City with Marc Brammer '95 and their cat, Lileth. COA | 15