Jessi Lewis

I’m sorry, Bunny.

He drapes his plaid
over her shoulders
in the grey CVS where they
stand in line and wait
—always waiting without a watch—
they lean and drip.

He kisses her ragged wig.
Purpled misting scars wrap
her once-breasted chest.
The skin along her neck and shoulders—
indeed, all of her has
turned to sea glass, coral skeleton,

the lost seams of aluminum pans.
Mollusks, beer pop tabs,
broken shell
—always the shine of metal peels—
float above her
veins in sunken shallows.

I’m so sorry, Bunny,

he says again.
When she leans her head to his cheek,
her tidal pools slosh,
leaving a wetness
at the loose of his neck.

Then the line moves forward, and
—always the scuff of heels—
a mother of three in tennis shoes,
red crop pants,
walks through their puddle,
humming soft and sure.

Author Portrait

Jessi Lewis grew up on a blueberry farm in the middle of nowhere with brothers, bees, dogs, and deer. Her fiction and poetry have been published or is forthcoming in Appalachian Heritage, Rock & Sling, Flyway, and Ghost Town. Her short story, “Walnuts,” was nominated for a Pushcart.