Leslie Anne Mcilroy
Coming Home Wet
She asked him this:
What lake did you cross to get here
and why are your eyes so new like that?
Only the coaster beneath her drink was dry
and that awful reborn feeling puddled around her.
His reasons were wide with beaconed shores and seas of longing,
her responses, old and sodden as she took another sip, looking out across
the horizon of him. He asked her for her history in sand and she gave him a towel.
Dripping with a thirst for what was, what could be, he dried himself and the one tear she allowed him.
Dreaming of Men VII
I am dreaming of men again.
They say things like “I want
you back, even pregnant.”
And I think about transparency,
bad word choice, how my ex
backed out when I was expecting
and I never forgave him, how
10 years later I go back in
dreams: my boss brushing up
against me says he has my back,
he backs me and my skirts, mostly,
but I can tell he’s holding back.
And this feels nice, like a secret
weapon/code/sin, like I am back
in the game, until the HR woman
says I am back sliding and grabs
me. Then I kick her in her round
belly. I don’t think about the baby
till I wake from dreams of men,
back to back. Instead, I think how
much I hate that woman, how still
I dream men good.