I have this fantasy
that I am dressed in a leather jacket
smoking a cigar
just standing there
holding Kafka or Adrienne Rich
by the spine
when an old boyfriend walks up with his
yellow-haired wife and says
Hey, remember me? Sean.
And I reply, casually
Sean? Maybe. The Sean with the big dick or the Sean with the small dick?
And his eyes dart around because he wants to say
but then he’s admitting to me seeing his dick at all
with his wife standing right there
who is holding a ratty looking purse
and what I think is a dead raccoon or
maybe her jacket
So he says
Sorry, I might be mistaken.
but damn, I look so good standing there in my cheetah-print leggings
and puffy hair and the sort of eyeliner that looks professional
that he repeats
But I really think we might have known each other at some point.
And I grin a little, lean in,
and whisper just loud enough for his wife to hear
Small dick, eh?
And I go home and I put on my pink bathrobe and sit on the couch and
I feel triumphant and my kids are running around with scissors
and the leggings are thrown over the loveseat
like a flag
—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014
Heather Bell: “Poem writing can be an interesting beast. I wrote this poem in particular in honor of Sean (real name), who once said, ‘I do not know how you are ever published, or why. Your poems simply make no sense.’ So, Sean, this one is for you.”