Kate Arden

What you owe

in this one I walk in to the gas station & you sigh.                        I buy aloe vera &
pretzels & I feed you  the quarters for the washing machine.           in the basket on my hip
is the sleeping baby you gave me.                       in this one she’s awake.              in this
one we walk out hand in hand. in this one      you’re in the passenger side of the bed,
so I get in the glove box again. in this one you shake your head      when I enter the store.
tap the. “we reserve the right….” sign. I buy a coffee with my last           dryer sheet &
pour it in the engine.         in this one—I swear—it happened in a field. you pulled up
my skirt and put it in the basket.    we both know I was wearing shorts.        in this
one my therapist says you were saying things always get better   in the spring? & it’s
August.                  the sun is setting again   so I stir you into my slushy. we both
know it doesn’t matter what I drink this time.      wake up please. the baby’s crying.
        I say this is like one of those sitcoms where they do an alternate timeline.
      you say it’s half like a sitcom & I say it is pretty funny isn’t it?                 & you
say you’ll have to pay for that.            I say pay for it how &                 you ask why I didn’t
dye my hair in this one.      & I say this is my cum shot, get off.                     & you say I
don’t work here.
 I ask if you ever dream about me   & you say          wouldn’t you
like to know
.                     but I do know.   in this one I write my last poem about you & I
mean it    again.   there’s nothing we both know, is there? I put the baby in the washing
                 machine & ask you to watch her. she strikes me in the naval        & pulls me by
our umbilical.                   you say I’ve got to get back to work.                        I say tell her
                 it’s petrol in there. you say        you tell her. my tumbleguts tightening the
distance.          it’s a mother’s job. in this one at least. you ask why                  I write
you like a romcom.                     always the com, with you.          & I ask why you raped
me.


Kate Arden is an M.F.A. candidate at the University of Kentucky. She received a B.A. in English and Political Science from the University of North Carolina. Her work has appeared in Cellar Door Magazine.