aspirate. fizzle the “s.”
sidestep a first kiss. sidestep last.
west coast swing dance, pretzel in saddle shoes,
hopscotch, stagger, oscillate on offbeat toes,
forget how it goes. graduation. June, July, August.
intermission, flings before last vanishings,
…that’s it—soft satin Tuesday,
swirl skirt, someone else’s culottes,
someone else’s perspired hands, someone else’s slipping
saliva in my apartment parking lot.
stop. simmer.
i am peerless. i am not synchronized.
sugar, less strawberries. sidestep.
i will not go to work. i will not hold your hand.
stare windowless, dexterous. charleston like the east coast,
Charleston near an old home. pretzel and shoulder-scratch,
someone else’s sweat in my slipping
hands.
saliva splash on my rose blush.
wrestle strangers in full-body dips, miss ages, lose faces,
never catch names, sip syllables all at once, the same
obstruction, linger
in possessive sibilants,
cursive signatures on water-cooler cups.
Sophie Hall writes creative nonfiction and poetry about collage and clutter, even though she is somewhat of an organized person these days. She grew up in Mount Storm, West Virginia, but currently studies at Western Washington University with the goal of becoming a cool English teacher. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Jeopardy, Mawth Magazine, and The Nasiona. You can reach her on Instagram @sophieuhmanda.
