by Lydia Gompper
and it’s shaped like Oklahoma, where you left me,
where I sat at the side of the road
and waited. Where the heat was a wire
around my too-thin neck, and the dust
settled like thick new fur. Where that man,
the one with the gold cross necklace,
and the gold front tooth, and the gold gold
gold hair, tossed me a buoy and pulled me in.
Sat me in his trunk. Handed me an ice pop
and said cool down, kid. That man,
who brought me to a dark room, and
wiped me down, ten towelettes tinged beige.
Who touched me light, then hard,
then light again. Gave me another ice pop,
then drove me back out, to the side of the road,
and nudged me into the dirt. That man,
who left quicker than you did.
Lydia Gompper works in international book sales at Penguin Random House. She is a 2022 graduate of Princeton University, where she studied history and theater, and she currently lives in Connecticut. Her work is published or forthcoming in miniskirt magazine, Mag 20/20, and elsewhere.
Emerge Literary Journal 