the co-op parking lot
we came here years ago, buying pomegranate juice in a glass bottle
3587 marketplace circle, traverse city, mi, 49684
friday, december 9th, 8:XX pm, 2022
the last time i see you, the sky opens up &
pours out the remains of pencil dust.
we came here years ago, buying pomegranate juice in a glass bottle so we could be bartenders on your bed & paint a crown with shimmering acrylic paint.
the last time i see you, pomegranate kombucha,
gluten-free lemon shortbread, a chocolate bar.
i make you swipe your card.
you owe me.
for two poems about us
among the pages of an anthology
named for an ohio billboard.
for band t-shirts. for everything
that cannot have a price.
traced a single map together. this so-called state we were born into. the furthest we ever went—the city by the bridge, standing on the rocks, watching lake michigan, her quiet silvery body. the dark sky park just a light september haze. past pere cheney & home with your hand on my shoulder.
the last time i see you, neither of us
know i’ll make it so far west as to
delete your text thread while saltwater washes
my feet & the remains of sitka spruces
lowered into the sand by an earthquake
of the cascadia subduction zone,
shrouded in mist. all i know is i cannot
be in this place,
not right now. you keep reaching your hands
across the table, as if to invite mine to be held.
i keep them in my lap. you tell me i seem
different. i know. i’m wearing color, soft knit
like the faded green of a tulip leaf, earrings like
the gradation of lake michigan depths. i’ve been
loved back & had my heart wrecked since we last
sat by the old copemish school. you wouldn’t
understand: you know this. they promised
to move here, & now everywhere i look,
the streets claw at my skin. get me out.
say you’re jealous i’ll get to spend a month & change
with train whistles to detroit lulling me to sleep
in an attic room, away. say it’s good i’ve got a
plane ticket to tucson. say i’m glad you guys
will stay in touch. i look at the track lighting &
don’t say i needed you to cup my aching heart
& witness.
once, i wanted us to go north & visit the boy who used to carry a crowbar in his backpack & take pictures of us at the old farms. you knew that part. what i never told you was i imagined us in a motel in marquette, another chance for you to hold me.
the last time i see you, the dark space between
our vehicles. the last tight hug, six and a half years
since someone else’s old mission peninsula kitchen.
we think we’ll try, but you haven’t known
what to do with the strength of my open heart
in a long time. all you do is withdraw; all i do
is give.
next summer i’m going to unfurl the map all the way west. trace freeways alone. visit the boy who used to carry a crowbar in his backpack. i’ll walk through a derelict hotel in shorts & tights because later, he’ll take pictures of me at the old keweenaw mines with wind loosening eyelet folds of a petticoat. i’ll feel like a past self. self with eyeliner & secure in you.
i listen to boygenius’s “bite the hand” on the way home.
i’m not well. i’m less than.
i’m colder than apples.
i can’t cry yet, so danielle harper sheds her tears for me.
time is pencil dust.
andrea lianne grabowski is a midwestern lesbian occupying Anishinaabe land. her work lives in fifth wheel press, manywor(l)ds, HELL IS REAL: A Midwest Gothic Anthology, and many other homes, including the self-published chapbook there is an earth after innocence. a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, you can find her on long drives being inspired by music, or peering in the windows of abandoned buildings.
