by Sara Pirkle
At the airport, I whispered his name into my fist
and tossed both syllables in the recycle bin.
If I could let go of my voice calling him,
maybe I could let go of sin. Don’t judge.
Given the chance, I would live that month
over and over: all its muddy guilts and thrills.
Again, I’d stoke a campfire with a stick
while he whittled a spoon for his wife,
the blade blinking like a baby in the firelight.
I would study him again from every angle:
soaping his groin in the shower, towel-drying his hair,
lying in lamplight while he talked about her.
I’d again fill spiral notebooks with metaphors
for the laugh hidden inside his throat.
Again, let his naked fingertips trace my ribs,
light as a pianist touching a new piano’s keys.
Again, let my heart pirouette like a music
box ballerina whenever he left my room.
Better than sitting on the tarmac in Hartford,
feeling like an old mistress at the end of her life,
a continent slowly unrolling between us like a poem
inside a bottle, inside a suitcase, saying goodbye.
Sara Pirkle is an identical twin, a breast cancer survivor, and a board game enthusiast. Her first book, The Disappearing Act (Mercer University Press, 2018), won the Adrienne Bond Award for Poetry. She also dabbles in songwriting and co-wrote a song on Remy Le Boeuf’s album, Architecture of Storms, which was nominated for a 2023 GRAMMY in the Best Large Jazz Ensemble Album category. She is an Associate Director of Creative Writing at The University of Alabama.