Published by Eunoia Review.

In dive bars we scoot our barstools closer
so the other patrons won’t overhear when we whisper
about the girls from out of town tiptoeing in their high heels
on the uneven cobblestone streets.

We taste each other’s cocktails, the Bourbon mule
at the seafood spot, a grapefruit crush at the corner bar,
leaving traces of lip gloss on glass rims, hues of pinks,
reds, maybe purples.

We don’t talk about what we did that day, whether it was
sweeping the barn of hay, teaching a toddler how to press
new sounds to his lips, or sitting graciously by
while a patient’s family mourned.

We order salads and raw oysters and charcuterie platters
and spread fig jams onto crackers, giggling at the mess
of crumbs we leave on the bar, apologizing to the bartender
who we know by name.

Tell me–do you remember when we all lived here,
every one of us perky and single. And that time we wore
matching shirts by accident. Cried in that bathroom together,
in the stall with the broken lock.

Do you remember when we were too young
for mammograms or waiting till the kids go to bed to hang.
How we stayed up till the sun rose in the courtyard that night.
How we played music on somebody’s iPhone in the street,
and danced in the rain.