a poem a day for a year #275

by Amy Turn Sharp


“You’re so interesting," she says, as we sit on the park bench and eat submarine sandwiches. I lick mayonnaise from my thumb and say, “It’s only because I’ve loved a handful of reckless men.”
She sighs and sips her Coca Cola while the afternoon sun sits on her tiny shoulders. I put on my glasses and swing my feet back and forth like a child. “It will hurt a few times, but heartbreak doesn’t kill you. It carves pits in you bones and unravels you for a bit. No big thing. Years later you’ll toughen and weather up and be able to take anyone to your breast. Hold them and forgive them like little pets. Like rabbits.”
And she stares at me. Her mouth chews white bread. Her eyes all over me.