We used to dip potato wedgesÂ
in melted malt shakes.Â
Spent after schools sprawledÂ
on long stem grass blades.
Filled empty car seatsÂ
with our bodies wrapped in each other.Â
At seventeen, it’s always one tight dress over the other.Â
Tripping over my own wedges,
I bring you home because more filled seats
at the dinner table makes my mama happy. She shakes
memories of her messy marriage from her memory bank. Like new bladesÂ
on a knife, we cut tension with our laughter. SprawledÂ
on the living room rug, bellies full. SprawledÂ
between my flannel sheets. Empty house. We fit into each other.Â
I rub my hand across your cheek, feel the stubble that your razor blade
left behind. A sad thought wedgesÂ
itself into my brain. At seventeen, every sad thought shakesÂ
you and the little house of cards you’ve built with your emotions. We find seatsÂ
in the back of the movie theater, but I make sure the popcorn bin divides our seats
because I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t need my legs sprawledÂ
in the corner of a dim-lit room. No need to spill our malt shakesÂ
on the already sticky floor. I just want to whisper top-tier commentary with each other.Â
We both think consumerism wedgesÂ
its way into every film these days. Close-ups of Martha Stewart kitchen bladesÂ
that you can buy on Amazon after the end credits. At seventeen, bladesÂ
never lead to happy endings. We’re the last people to leave our seatsÂ
because you’re convinced every director wedgesÂ
an end-credit scene in the final minutes of every movie. You’re wrong. Popcorn kernels sprawledÂ
across my lap. They bounce off each otherÂ
as they hit the floor. You squeeze my hand because you know how it shakes
when I’m in public. Dressed in a Packers Christmas sweater, you shakeÂ
the box so hard it wakes the dog nuzzled between my thighs. I shove a switchblade
in your hand because patience is not a virtue and I know no otherÂ
human knows you better than I do. You take a seat
while shreds of wrapping paper are left sprawledÂ
between carpet fringe. Box open, you thank God it’s not another middle-aged man golf wedge —
Now, when someone shakesÂ
my hand, I think of empty car seats.Â
Long for afternoons blanketed in shredded grass blades.Â
Seventeen, head buried in your chest, arms and legs sprawled.Â
Now we’re foreign to each other,Â
sharing nothing more than potato wedges.Â