Fluid Motion

I stored some memories in a bottle
when I was nine. I didn’t find it again
for twenty years.

My hands crack when I run and shake
when I slice vegetables. The tomatoes,
jealous, demand I cry when I cut them, too.

Pushing thirty years I’ve learned my hands,
they do terrible things under pressure. Now the bottle,
well, it smells like whiskey.

I am finally mature enough to drink coffee.
When I hug my uncovered body pillow
I’m caught in a waltz with a girl in a pink

chiffon dress and bright, curly
ideas about fire. The song ends
so I pour the pitcher on her head—
but I’ve simply greased the flames.

Jeremy Jusek earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University. Check out his publication history and other work at http://www.jeremyjusek.com.

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