Free After the Kiss by Terra Elan McVoy Page A

crackle
    squeezed between imprisoned cries
    scratching my throat.
    The afternoon clock mocks
    â€”each slow second a shard lodged in skin.
    How can I ring up coffee
    as though it is important,
    when I can’t imagine anything
    being important
    again?
    Recipe for a Confrontation
    Begin with
    one hideous rumor,
    two awful photographs,
    and three cups of doubt.
    Stir in
    a difficulty nearly a whole week long
    and five phone calls today
    unreturned in a row.
    Throw in three dashes of insecurity,
    or more, to taste.
    Bring all this to a boil and then simmer,
    watching for the rime of bitter salts
    that will accumulate along the edge.
    When everything is the consistency
    of hard, suppressed tears,
    add, finally, his actual answering the phone,
    and one long—very long—and awkward pause.
    Gently combine an accusation,
    and three demands for an explanation.
    Wait for him to say something.
    And wait some more.
    Your crust will begin to brown,
    but do not open the oven too soon.
    Listen
    for the escape of steam from him
    â€”it will sound like a sigh—
    and his hesitant gurgle,
Well . . .
    Only when everything
    is burnt beyond denial,
    and his explanations have boiled away, leaving
    half-baked apologies you don’t believe
    will you know
    for sure
    that you are done.
    Words I Never Thought I’d Say
    I’m finished with you.
    Don’t call me.
    I can’t believe you.
    I hate you.
    Don’t call me—
ever
.
    How could you—how could you.
    You are nothing special, and
    I don’t believe in you—never did.
    You are just like the rest of them.
    You are
just like
the rest of them.
    You are just like the rest of them.
    You are dead to me.
    Amputation
    My arm’s been lopped off.
    There it is
    on the floor
    not bleeding anymore but still
    bloody.
    It is an odd thing
    â€”cold—
    to look down and see a part of you
    there,
    but not where it’s supposed to be.
    I look around my room,
    see proof of
    what it was to have two arms:
    photos
    of both entwined around another;
    pillows
    held closely in sleep;
    scissors, pencils, dirty forks
    once deftly used with the now-gone hand;
    my closet full of
    shirts with two sleeves.
    It hurts too much not to have it;
    phantom pains.
    I pick up the knife
    â€”I will figure out how to use it right—
    begin cutting away at my heart.
    Falling on Deaf Ears
    Only a hour after
    ending everything, my phone rings and it is
    Alec’s number on the screen.
    All the things he might say,
    all the things I want him to say,
    all the things he can’t possibly say I
    don’t want to say anything:
    press my phone
    off.
    Surreality
    Walking through a misting fog
    of bleakness all afternoon:
    somehow my body has moved itself
    from here
    to here
    â€”sleepwalking.
    A terrible dream
    only finally made real
    when Mom’s home-from-work hug surrounds me,
    asking,
    How was your day?

Camille
    everyone is suddenly a lesbian
    it must’ve been reading all that gertrude stein, or the special focus on women’s history month, but innocent wednesday morning, and who suddenly made everyone a lesbian? first connor and autumn, apparently no longer just best friends but now hanging off each other and letting the sides of their hands grace the sides of their boobs so that everyone on the sidelines can see. then dorie admits loudly that she feels cold-shower funny every time she sees zooey deschanel in a magazine. next ellen—yes, ellen!—at lunch checks out daphne with different eyes, and when you get to your coffeehouse there are two girls tonguing each other on the front couch plain as day. you are trying to be cool about it—what do you care; you lived in san francisco you love lesbians you’re sure your cousin is one—but today you can’t help but wonder with the sky so low and the humidity getting turned up, the baseball players suddenly leaving the field empty just like your inbox—you wonder if the cosmos isn’t just