NORMAN TUNNEL POEMS

Bad Rhymes

They didn’t tell us college was two identical twin XL beds, mattresses of navy blue.

Eating breakfast at midnight, if at all, and dancing on a Wednesday like we had nothing to lose.

Late nights in the library, together, when dropping orgo lab was all we might have had to choose. Then one day I woke you up with the spray paint, rosy red for me and forest green for you.

Dreams change. You win and lose. But when it’s all done, we’ll still be those stick figure girls, just us two.

New Year’s Day

As she waits to change the channel, her chest aches. Too-thin ribs about to break and palms sweating, she prays the excitement surrounding the Citrus Bowl will distract her.

The football players shake hands, and the screen fractures into a storm of memories. Her blue fingernails click her messages open and shut, and a litany of gold well wishes marches in like a platoon.

The flock of vultures descends, years spent waiting to shred each word and photograph. She pauses on his familiar face, the eye at the middle of the tempest, and lets herself reminisce of hair spilling across a pillow, red palm fronds tangling with ferns soft and brown, while a suitcase lurks in the corner. Nicotine, mixed drinks and hope fill her mouth as two gold chains tangle and separate.

She breathes deep. It’s been a year now. All games must begin and end with the brush of a palm.