by Rebecca Karas
11/22
You still exist
someplace
a pathless forest,
trees nudging
shoulders,
a baby-rocking
slow dance.
The earnestly placed
lumber of memory:
washing my
untrodden feet
in the
sink.
Cowpoke Kids
My first boyfriend:
front tooth pivot,
clammy lips tugged by
cigarettes
from the old
vending machine.
Three years
rubbernecked
between us.
We saw
Brokeback Mountain
gripping sticky armrests,
and he tried to kiss me
as I cried
for cowboys.
Rebecca is a poet and weird fiction writer from Michigan. She can be found on instagram @rebecca.karas and Bluesky @rebeccakaras.bsky.social.