there is a room where they are saying your name
there is a cup of coffee with the indentation of your
mouth around the rim and there is a puddle hungry
for the shape of your shoe to splash around
there is a voice, a fist, raised against you
somewhere, in an argument you need
to learn to lose and there are hours stacked
in the corner waiting for you to open them
there is a moment in your childhood
best friend’s life she doesn’t remember, but you do
and there is a girl in a corner who will not know
she wants to kiss you till you appear
shiny from the rain and out of breath, unaware
completely of all the yawning spaces
that need you in them —you, who are awake now
only to her eyes, her slightly open mouth
Claudia Maurino, ’24