If in Chicago we only discovered each other
on a creaking bed with a Mexican cowboy
carved into the headboard, and if Chicago
meant nothing but the smell of fish
washed up from Michigan’s big lake, and at four
a drunken romp in a pink wig to El Cid
for burritos and lime rickies; if the rotating lamb
and drunk women arguing meant we were in Chicago,
and it was a way back to bigger things and lonelier stories;
then, Love, I’ll take it with me, not in a worn cigar box
with the word Evermore printed on its side
but tucked beneath my T-shirt, safe from the rain.
Tricia Theis lives just below the Mason-Dixon Line, by way of New England, on the fringes of Baltimore, Maryland. She keeps house casually with her husband, two children, and their two dogs. When not reading or writing , Tricia spends her time volunteering with social justice initiatives and working as a freelance writer. She is an assistant editor for The Tishman Review, and an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore.