I had a dream that I spilled orange Fanta
all over your black leggings; your thighs
were sticky and smelled of fake citrus.
You coiled back, the wetness a foreign feeling,
and swore at the dampness and my clumsy wrists and everything.
I am native speaker of dumbass
and your dialect reminds me of home:
of my rabid mother snapping her jaws,
the white spittle of suburban anxiety drooping off her teeth,
each transgression breeding aggression,
the cycle of fear.
One of the few things I actually care about is my mother,
and when she dies I will take her rounded chin in my hands
and cry for days. When you die
I like to think I won’t think I’ll care all that much.
But who knows. Maybe I’ll come to your funeral in a proper suit
and stand with my hands folded into each other behind my back
and close my eyes and set my head at a downward-sloping angle towards the ground
and think about everything about you: your awfulness, how you thought
it would be nice to die, how you would get up in the morning and eat toast and complain
and tell me you loved me and go to work and come back after a few hours,
how you would tell me that I’d be better soon and that it was okay, that everything was going to be okay,
and how we’d just sit and be near each other for a while, and how everything was fine and there was no pressure
to do anything but be.

Vincent Sergiacomi is a student of English at Arcadia University. His poetry has previously appeared in Quiddity, and is set to appear in Poetry Pacific. His influences include Pablo Neruda, Larry Eigner, and Louise Glück. When not writing, Vincent enjoys going on walks and listening to music.

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