Lipogram Without You
by Lucy Hayes
Okay look: another girl in her kitchen, I am
wringing soapy water from sponge to plate.
I can’t say the season, only that I am inside
the season that of slow, bright decay.
No, I will not let time embarrass me
again, so I don’t startle at the shriek
of the kettle (a seafoam green wedding gift
from some estranged witness); water
boiling for tea steams. I take a sip,
idyllic lick & lap back to my molars swish.
Self-care. I warm my own lips. Independent,
one might say. On Fridays, I spend money
on dirty martinis now that I love olives.
I am one more woman alone at the bar,
one of many boney frames arranged
like a bottom row of teeth before
mastication. Oh, hello. Yes, I can be alone
& we can still get drinks! Before I sit across
from another, I line my lips & eyes, ooo
in dim light & ogle the cocktail list & mmm
when the first sip of gin hits my throat & oh
I love that sting & tingle. It’s only drinks!
I want to tell them my favorite color, so I blather
in the direction the wind blew & how is it
that my omission goes not-heard? My noisy
swallow of any other, this flamboyant loneliness
indistinct & apparently spectatorless despite
my many declarations! Oh, no, I won’t
open that wide lip of longing yet, so I take
a sip & sigh & finally say what I do
not want: goodness & its tender edges;
god & his massive hands, too soft
to get a grip on; a baby to hold & coo
& hold & cry–– I do not want to be held today.
I am warming from the inside. Yes, I’ve loved
yes, I linger too long on the last word & at the end
of the date I tell them: yes, my love, the door
is open. It’s time to leave for good.
Lucy Hayes (she/her) is a poet and essayist from Minneapolis, Minnesota. A graduate of the Randolph College MFA program, her work is in or forthcoming from Rock & Sling, Mutiny!, and Bodega Magazine. She lives in Brooklyn, New York where she teaches writing to middle schoolers.