Pretty
You look pretty here among the
chirping lights. You remind me of an
ex-girlfriend I’m still friends with.
Each person in this place walks around
in an invisible cage. How you doin’
there, boss, says one, nodding.
I squint at him not unknowingly,
remembering that I am someone’s guest.
You lift your special glass moonward,
smiling like the girl you are, saying
something simple and audible, like
Are we there yet? but not that.
But I know that you were born on a farm,
though you do not know that I know that.
You still have nettles in your socks,
I imagine, and nothing you say
will surprise me. And there is something
magical in the way you carry yourself,
as though nothing at all could stop you.
Your rings, so many of them, lined
along white fingers — the visible
strap of your brassiere, the craven
aliveness of your eyes. Everything
happens in time, you say, swaying.
I respond, But it’s not time that gets me,
and it’s not everything I’m thinking
about. It’s one particular thing,
and it’s fleetingness I worry about.
You shudder like a baby eating a lemon.
You look at me lovingly, though.
–Aaron Belz