Artwork by Atif Khan and Damon Kowarsky. Image Courtesy ArtChowk Gallery.
Tonight, holding a stranger
in my arms—
heat lightning,
cyclone-level tempests—
I thought of you,
alone,
or not alone,
in our distant hometown
during those last minutes
when the dive bars
and the dance pubs,
with their sleazy clientele,
are closing—
Some strangers pairing off,
each desiring
what little numbness
the other offers…
the lukewarm neon
an oil spill
in puddles of rain…
Our clubs. Our hometown—
No.
Holding her, not you,
my clubs, my hometown.
I watched clouds
empty themselves,
watched until the probing rays
of sunrise pointed out
the water damaged ceiling,
pointed out the ripped-off blue dress,
the recycled syringes,
as if the sunlight could hold
all things, each piece
of evidence,
to show me,
or make me realize—
But it can’t,
or isn’t trying hard enough.
All night I’ve slept,
or not slept,
with some woman who,
tomorrow,
I probably will not want
to see again—
Who will probably feel
the same way about me.
At least I’ll never
have to deal with her again.
Soon, she’ll migrate with another stranger—
I don’t expect anything more.
Our hometown seems so far,
and the moments I miss…
even though they were,
more likely,
ordinary,
like any memories—
hooked by human love,
the most relentless of barbs.
I remember,
after threatening your other man,
a mother blue jay building
her nest, twig by twig,
fiber by fiber,
constructing it so solemnly,
as if it mattered…
sizing it up
with such care.
~ Domenic Scopa
Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He is a student of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program, where he studies poetry and translation, and he is a literature professor at Changing Lives Through Literature. He currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts.
