In the corner, apart,
between swings of the restroom door,
I am privy to the bent covers
of a pocketed memo pad,
to dry elbows, winter-cracked,
on bar top of mahogany
too good for the wounds
of the failure of your dry spell.
A world away,
cocooned in a corner booth,
spinning a water glass
between the palms
of my steady hands,
I take no notes.
The reflection of my bloodshot
eyes is burned next to yours in
the mirror behind the bottles.
I have scribbled my own despair,
musing on the implications of
the familiarity of the bottom of an
empty bottle on pages as stained
There is nothing new
to see from your perch, cracked vinyl
warming beneath you – nothing to see,
to twist with words, to shine up
and declare remarkable.
Alicia Wright was raised in West Virginia and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Bowling Green State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Kenning, Sugared Water, Rufous City Review, and Kestre