By Grace McAllister | Poetry | Spring 2019
Gin and ginger ale in hand and
on the worst night of my life,
Eve awarded me my jacket and charged
her marines boyfriend with taking
me home.
Eve is making potato leek soup,
the scales of justice dangling
from her ladle hand as she asks
me to grab the wine from the fridge
please.
We’re at a hotel party
some misguided boy urged her to come to
in his own style of low-effort seduction.
We’re at the McDonald’s on New Year’s,
sipping soda through the too-wide straws.
We’re shivering on Brighton Beach
blue white legs prematurely in shorts,
sunlight deceptively cold as we weigh
down our blanket with our full backpacks.
Wilder Voice Magazine 