One Poem
by Amy Milin
Drifting
Bored, we drive into the evening.
Half-hidden by clouds, the moon flickers
like a bulb, interrogating our silence.
The bar is full of locals. We charm them
in separate conversations, standing
back to back. There you go—
you used to say we were mirrors.
When we get home, I hold you still
between my legs, smooth your back with oil.
Your face crushed in the mattress. I talk
and talk. I tell you all the things I left out
back when you kept calling us the same.
Amy Milin is a writer of fiction and poetry from New York City, currently wandering the woods of rural Pennsylvania. There she runs Swift Waters, a startup retreat and residency for writers and artists. Her work is published or forthcoming in Joyland, Right Hand Pointing, and Thimble. She can be found on Instagram: @amy.mylin and @swiftwaters_creative_retreat