Saturday, April 2, 2011

europe or bust

i cried my eyes out, sitting
on my mother’s couch, listening to you
speak about foreign places
we three girls with hungry eyes eager
to trade spaces with you,
the world
weary traveler girl, at one with
the same girl we knew:
in middle school,
slumber parties,
high school sneaking from
the house,
when i first got you hammered, underage,
in a bar.
we all certainly drink legally now. we share fifteen
years of history,
chronicling the events
of our combined pasts – two
weddings, one funeral, one incipient divorce,
and the solitary
two of us
who have never made it quite that far.
i cry on the phone to my lover,
“i need a change, i want to go to Europe, i am the worst girlfriend
in the world”
he says i’m not, which makes him
than i will ever be

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