Check Please
by Emily Skoler
I'm seated alone with my sister's letter from Argentina,
anticipation of the toucans she will wake to see at five;
In the background, meaning
in memory,
meaning an hour ago,
you touch your fingertips to your temples,
you rub your eyes.
Baseball caps are in fashion,
so the mothers in this pizza joint all look like
their young sons,
brims pulled low. Everyone's talking
at once, sipping a fizzy summer
through plastic straws, tearing pizza from the trays.
I've come to love you,
though what does that mean?
The radio is on too loud and the songs are from the 70's,
songs I heard while drunk
or driving fast in a car, songs in the background
while we kissed in the basement
until our mouths hurt, our faces chafed.
Oh, this is confusing, I don't mean us,
at least not together. I'm thinking of Bill Laskey
and Gerald Muldonato, hair tonic and knotted torsos.
Now I'm thinking of you.
Who was there for you to sharpen your body on,
to fill you with grief
and introduce you back to yourself
as some rapturous,
some ravenous stranger?