BPR 52 | 2025
No, I said. One day I perched on the back of
his rented motorcycle, the next, I walked
through sun as if through a grove of
Ginsu knives. His curly blond hair,
his glasses, how funny/sweet he
had seemed, eating crawfish
beside me, the plastic red
checked tablecloth, the
black beads of their
eyes, the table
and floor of
strewn
shells,
loud Greek waiters shouting orders, a chaos
of crackers and long, skinny forks, Retsina
and Ouzo, and a walk on a long beach
beside ruins, the milky puddles of
the moon. Was the doll a
Christmas gift? Did she once
wear a bathing suit? Bridal
gown? Go-go outfit? Did
she cheer? Own a cat?
A kitchen with
mini stove,
fridge?
When does it change? a brother pulls
out her hair, the dog bites through
her neck, and there’s always a
cute boy, more important
dressings-up. Laughter.
We were having
a good time,
weren’t
we?
Lines from our feet blurred behind us
as waves devoured what was left of
the white coast. We went back to
my room. I was tired. He wanted
to stay. We did that dance.
He stayed. All the lines
blurred. All the
Nos.