Poem by Marisa Silva-Dunbar
I drive home as the sun sets in the valley, Concrete Blonde’s Joey,
pulls me through time—December of 2018, when I thought
it was romantic to hold a broken person. My arms around you:
on your front porch or in your bed with the dingy gray sheets—
the melancholy sound of Willis Earl Beal’s Burning Bridges,
haunted us in either location. I waited until the pieces could be put back.
Did you want tape or glue?
You love your jagged edges, want to stay shattered—
women line up to fix you, a never ending supply. Recycle
one of your foolish exes who desperately clings to you hoping
you’ll call and want them again. They will lie and pretend they aren’t tethered
to you—tell their friends you’re a warning sign, they’ll find their way
over to your house at 3AM only to be repeatedly disappointed.
Or lure someone younger, promise that she’ll be the savior
this time. It’s what you guaranteed everyone else. Stay
and we can work through our issues together. We can be lovers
in Tahiti, swim with the otters in NOLA. I will be a mirage
of a twin flame, only to leave you scorched in the end.
Remind her she’s crazy if she ever questions you.
There is no December longing for you, every breath
feels like a sigh of relief. I am one of the few who knew,
freedom was fully walking away from you.
About the author Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in The Bitchin' Kitsch, ArLiJo, Pink Plastic House, Sledgehammer Lit, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine. Her second chapbook, "When Goddesses Wake," was released in December, 2021 from Maverick Duck Press. Her first full-length collection, "Allison," was recently published by Querencia Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. To check out more of her work go to www.marisasilvadunbar.com
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