love in the nineties

I had my first date in several years recently. We listened to riot grrrl music while making puttanesca. She talked about her student loans, totally ignoring the documentary on how across the world animals have learned to mimic the sounds of cellphones. There was some discussion of trying that place across the street from the batting cage (though it’s probably a meat market she says, even on Wednesdays, thanks to the commuter crowd). On my way home, I drove past your house. You had one of those styrofoam/Halloween gravestones with “Personal Accountability” written on it, the way normal people would have “Here lies Les Moore” or “R.I.P. Honest Government.” I remember lying on your floor, sharing a cigarette. We were having a conversation you later titled “love in the nineties,” pretending we came from the world of ghosts to find each other. The full story defies easy summary. One time, you drank absinthe in a storm. One time, someone punched holes in a coffee can to put stars in your room.

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming from New Orleans Review (Web Features), Hobart, B O D Y, and other journals.