when we argued about cities
When we argued about cities
you said mine was too empty
for your three quarters full love songs;
I said you were tattoo deep, damp
as a tumor. You said I was
just looking for buckets to dump
over porch rails. I said you were
just looking for pictures to send home.
In Vancouver, I sit myself down,
say, "He is not here, you girl,
you invisible body of water."
I hear you say I am the worst
kind of restless, that I tear down
porticos to hear construction workers
whistle while I walk. On the Internet
I find a selfie you’ve taken in San Francisco,
behind you a streetcar crests a hilltop.
In Atlanta, I burn your Peter Gabriel
t-shirt in a hotel hallway. In Louisville
you sing songs I hate so loudly
the people next door stop their love-making
to call the front desk.
When we are done, you take the dog;
I smash anything that fits between
a storm door and a brick wall,
but still I'm up all night on Granville
dreaming of every city I’ve never been to,
wondering if you are happy now
that you’ve gotten to them first.
Sarah Carson was born and raised in Michigan but now lives in Chicago with her dog, Amos. She is also the author of three chapbooks and two full-length collections: Poems in which You Die (BatCat Press, 2014) and Buick City (Mayapple Press, 2015) Sometimes she blogs at sarahamycarson.wordpress.com.