Peter Pan Yawning in the Sun
Translucent yarns pool in clear broth,
echo tears swimming behind my eyes
as you stare into them from across the table,
slurping noodles like a schoolboy,
spooning the salt and spice between bites
of chicken and jalapeño pepper,
sweat beading on the arch of your brow.
(I don’t yet know this is the only time
I will ever eat pho with you. Months pass,
Styrofoam container long since tossed,
but the fork’s still in my car, somewhere
gritty with flavor.)
The way we say goodbye, like we know
we’ll never see each other again, and don’t care.
Hurried; I’m on my way somewhere. We don’t
even hug. Or, we do so fast, we both forget.
Eight hours later, I am in the back row
at a Taylor Swift concert in Minneapolis.
The air is heavy, sticky with the breath
of 60,000 voices all saying the same thing.
Still, the confetti rises up to greet us & we reach
out our fingertips, try to catch a piece of the night.
Ashly Curtis is a book professional and aspiring poet living in the Midwest. She serves as a poetry reader on local literary journal Barstow & Grand and is Co-Editor-in-Chief for online literary journal The Green Light. Her work can be found in twig, Barstow & Grand, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Calendar (2018 and 2019), and Cold Creek Review.