Melissa Fournier, Issue 16.2



I am a barefoot runner

You are homeless


I run into you—

you move in

in me




Whatever We Are or

I Am Willing to Dispense With Antiquated Notions of Romance in Favor of Getting it On


Honey, you are a poem.

There’ll be no red apricots slipped

from a pocket into your hand. Not with the way you slide

your GPS into my dash and say, This oughta get you there.

And it does, by the most direct and quickest route. Forget

long, slow rambles down scenic roads. Alight

in your hummingbird way,

just long enough to let your tongue lap my clematis. Come

for your nectar again and again

before time burns up this body

like fire burns our store of winter wood. Let’s make

every day a celebration—

even if all we’ve got is beer and chips and

salt-licks of lips. I want to string

tin cans to the bumper of your Toyota, paint

Still Married on your back window

and drive through town, the two of us, like virgins on our way

to some backwoods make-out spot. I want

to hear honking horns cheering us on louder

than the nightly V of geese flying over our house

as they migrate south. I want you

to get me dirty

with your Detroit grit. Forget

pristine shores. Rock me with your talk of Pistons and Fox Sports because

you are a renaissance man of another sort. Myers & Briggs

may peg me INFJ, but honey, you are ESPN all the way. Still,

when I hear you say,

God, woman, do you know

what it feels like to be inside of you?  

I forget what we are not.

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