by Lynn Finger
our first purchase as a couple. Bought at an outdoor flea market under
a turquoise sky, a print, really. We had it framed. That poster
was our relationship, interesting on the surface, but flat.
Every time we thought about it, we were reminded, oh yeah, we did that
together, & it was good. Now we are caught in a soft precipice, one
word after another. We unravel. It comes like the moon
lathes the sky, leaves a curved hoof of lamplight. That last night we argued
about misremembered movie quotes, in the mismatched stuffed chairs.
“It’s, “Do you feel lucky?” you said, & I, “No, ‘Ask yourself,
do I feel lucky?’” and neither were we. The poster was one of the things we
liked about us, because of that newness. At the end of us you
asked to keep it—recalling that day at the flea market. No
one had to win, we just held that instant for our grounding, a cheap poster,
washed sky, drink of sunshine, the barter a joyride. The best part?
being accepted into your glance. Bigger than the sky.
Lynn Finger’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the Ekphrastic Review, MineralLitMag, Unlost, Night Music Journal and Drunk Monkeys. Lynn is one of the founding editors of the forthcoming journal Harpy Hybrid Review, and also works with a group that mentors writers in prison.