Lori Gomez

I Think I Was Hatched

The first line is meant to intrigue you. 

The second line will establish the voice. 

The third line is grateful you've made it this

far, and will either be awkward and self-conscious, 

or cocky and boastful. The fourth line really doesn’t 

even acknowledge your existence, it just exists for

its own pleasure and runs on ahead. The fifth line

resents the first four, wondering why it's always

getting rooked and stuck in the middle of this.

The sixth line is the start of a new paragraph, or

maybe it's a stanza that stands alone. The seventh

line has given up on all of this, and rides the subway

home. Once home, it takes off its shoes, pops open

a bottle of something red and fortifying, then lets you

draw your own conclusions.

Fast

Under the eaves of a tall building

we pant and shudder, shaking off

pieces of sky as we dry, and the

dream fades faster. You're gone

I'm in the lobby of an office tower

I stumble into an elevator and press

the first button I can reach, there

are no numbers on them, and I know

It doesn't matter. Nothing does.

I walk out of the elevator naked

and self-conscious, the floor rolls

Itself open like a red carpet for me

A sterile grey air hits my lungs

I am now thirsty as well as naked

lost as a light beam on the surface

of the sun, I wonder where you've gone

A green silk robe appears loosely covering

me, the sash is unwrapped. In one hand are

my jewels, in the other a cellphone, I never think

of calling you. Not once. The walls become mirrors

I become another. She does a reverse Narcissus. 

A triple backflip with a twist that torques at the speed

of want and dives out of the gene pool and into a mirror

Without a splash.