Kismet as contact sport
In most universes, I marry you. But not all of them.
#1,213, for example. You’re a prince and I scrub
the castle stairs, and when I hear you’re to be married
I poison the stew. #526, I get to be the prince.
You’re in the dungeon, soon for the gallows.
I stand nude outside your little window
so your last days are full of nice views.
No, shut up—you don’t die in all of them.
#1,129, I’m a calla lily and you’re a very slight
breeze. Does that make you dead, Socrates?
#226,718, we’re opposed soldiers that lay down
our guns to play soccer but it’s just for the cameras.
#17c, I’m a dog with a bone and (egads!)
it’s your bone. #17d,
we are both just dust particles and we're sucked into
the same vacuum cleaner. Of all the gin joints
in all the worlds. Come here often?
#4,091, we have a very charged
interaction at a coffee shop (I've read that, it’s good.
Whoa, spoiler!) and I leave my scarf behind. You try
desperately to return it but I’ve already
bought a new scarf and also I don’t like you
as much as it seemed. In most of them, yes,
I marry you and hey, in some of them
we even last the year! There’s #11. We buy a duplex,
we have babies, sell the duplex at a loss.
Fuck quick in the shower when we can.
Chicken again? Doesn’t it feel like we’ve
had chicken every day of our lives?
We fight, yeah—there are big crawling months when
it’s just one long fight—but then our youngest has this
piano recital and you forget not to hold my hand.
No, I know, we don’t always last the year.
No, I know. We don’t always get married.
There is at least one universe
in which we never meet at all
and by God, when I find it—
race you there.
Drowning (in and) out
Phone sex with you is still a baleful
imitation of the real maelstroming
thing, sure, but also better than bodied
sex with anyone else, so here
I am. Hidden most catholically under
my duvet, reminded of reading after
curfew by flashlight. Yes. I was that
jezebel they warned you about.
Your graveled hymning across air
waves, you were barely awake when
you picked up and now—awake—
up now—-I fold in on myself.
Taut with exiled exhales, the dirtiest
thing I could think to say was
I miss you I missyou yes imissyou.
The best part doesn’t come, you
know, in which you’re sweating
and I stick myself to you anyway
asunder of all our oceans, hey—
is it sex, just listening to you breathe
across all these watered hours?
That’s my favorite position. I once
desired you so badly I burst
into tears. This was when you were still
here—I was to see you the next day
and yet, my hands wavered like paper
boats as I floated plates of pasta
and tiramisu to my tables. I watched
their water glasses perspire. We
agreed we wouldn’t last past
your leaving, but when lovegirls
like me find a hook to flesh into
we just don’t let off, you know?
And you! O poster boy of practicality
it was a day before you called,
ragged. There was no question
posed nor answered. Neither
specifically nor Atlantically. Yes
I love when it is raining both here
and there, but I do miss our showers.
Running soap over your shoulders
down your wrists. Salinity
circling the drain and there
unsurfacing. Still, we can lather.
Repeat. Deep breath, flashlight on
or I can bioluminesce. We’ll
go auraciously into someplace
where my mouth is open, yes, but
no words come out for once—for once.
I want to tell you something you’ve never heard before
but I was born with you there in my hip socket
I was born unto your shirt pocket
we pass by storefront glass
if you’re so tall how are you on my keychain huh fucker?
how can you be over my shoulder if you’re in it ?
I am sore of you the whole sworn shore of you
I am hard won and you have won me
what are you going to Do about it?
you’ve stitched me inside out
from corner to corner and back again I am underbelly up
everything’s closed before we can get out of bed
don’t you care to eat?
the last time I was this loved I cut off all my hair
I didn't need it anymore
Yes I love you it’s like a funeral
I could've gone all my days without knowing
and now—you see?
of course you do I’ve got your glasses on
Kate Arden is an M.F.A. candidate at the University of Kentucky. She received a B.A. in English and political science from the University of North Carolina. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Cordite Poetry Review, Ghost City Review, and Cellar Door.