Postpartum Night Out I am alone, dancing, losing my body to bodies, raising myself to gin, tonic to forget my breasts are heavy with milk I will later have to empty down the sink.
Purple, Llama, Cantaloupe
My jeans are slung low again, the shadow of my belly button a starting point for eyes, my hips, free from child, draw their steady circles.
Three words on my profile drew you to me, you said, when you typed your first message. I thought you noted disgust for “right wing jerkocrats” and lost dreams: “wishing Bush sterile.”
I remember what it is to be seen.
I scoured your profile as well, saw political leanings angled like the Tower of Pisa Julie E. Bloemeke lives in Alpharetta, Georgia. She is a graduate of the M.F.A. program at Bennington College and was a finalist in the 2001 Arts & Letters poetry competition. Her work has appeared in Pebble Lake Review.
and knew we were simpatico— or at least as conforming as any socialist might be. But no, you lol’ed, my politics aside, the three words I chose should all have been adjectives: “sweet, creative, thoughtful” or “clever, hot, mysterious,” words that together are meant to capture the essence of a person, if only three words could. All these months later, you still laugh at my choices, pledge purple llamas and cantaloupes like love’s secret code.
JC Reilly is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. She has had work published or forthcoming from Xavier Review, Kalliope: A Journal of Women's Literature and Art, The Reach of Song, and The Arkansas Review.
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