I don’t need to lie in a hospital bed, bleeding
all of the broken reasons why I am not dying today, and I don’t
need a wheelchair to paralyze me with crippled explanations about driving
through half of a whiskey bottle, and I don’t need my family
to parade into my subconscious like it’s a road they’ve been down,
to help me forget what it feels like to squeeze a hand
that doesn’t squeeze back.

I see her ghost in my passenger seat.

I wrap my heart in a tourniquet and let it squeeze
our first kiss—her lips tasted like a strawberry
lip balm future, and vanilla bean milkshake.

I close my eyes and give into her memory
like a heroin overdose.

Zachary Cooper is currently an undergraduate at SUNY Brockport, studying Creative Writing. He is from a small agricultural town outside of Albany, New York. He has four poems forthcoming in the 2017 issue of SUNY Brockport’s Jigsaw magazine. Zachary hopes to pursue a career as both a writer and professor of English.

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