Poetry: May/December

Photo by Magomed Shapiev for Scopio

{First published in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, March 2023}

Looking from you to me,

hotel clerk doesn’t see the man 

I see, as you fumble 

with water, pain pills

(your back, a grid of frayed wires). 

Reservation lists one queen. 

 

We’ve had directness: 

So, are you her ... father?

(That was the bank clerk.)

So, what’s your relationship?

(That was the doctor.)

Encounters you prefer not to 

 

remember, though we laugh it off. 

I hope they don’t arrest us, you say,

our bags now on the floor, 

taut, white sheets pulled back

on the bed.

 

Head cradled on a pillow, your features

are still the middle-aged man I remember. 

Wizard in the classroom,

playful at deconstruction

(or destruction, perspective depending)

gesturing like a tangle of clothes hangers

unforgettable.

 

Sometimes with eyes closed

I make love to that younger man

because he is my age 

because he is you, 

same gravelly voice whispering

Goodnight, my dearest. 

Different cadence, though, 

different energy. 

Office floor, no bed,

books and papers everywhere akimbo,

upper-story window uncovered 

so oaks peek in—since fantasies are meant to be

illicit. Not that I thought of it back then. 

 

Not that I would tell you now,

except perhaps in a poem.

Tricia Gates Brown

Tricia Gates Brown has worked as a professional editor and co-writer since the mid-2000s. Though the bulk of her current work is for the National Park Service and Native tribes, her expertise is broad. She has experience in academic and creative writing and strives to honor an author’s tone while improving a written piece. She holds a PhD from University of St. Andrews and edits everything from academic works to poetry, while her own essays, creative nonfiction, and poetry have appeared widely in journals. A 2022 Independent Publishers Award (IPPY) Bronze Medal was awarded to her novel Wren.

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Poetry: Pilgrimage

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Love When No One Is Looking