There’s a waterlogged shoe on the shore,
laces still tied tight. The tide takes
some things, ignores others, like small crabs
ducking down invisible whose breathing
froths the sand. I watch a young couple
in front of the theater. He’s in a pressed suit.
She’s in a red coat. He leans in and whispers.
It must be dramatic—his jaw is so square,
her curls a dark river. The marquee lights
flicker, one loose bulb blinks a shooting star.
The scene shifts—we are in the kitchen.
We are late. You have lost your keys, again.
This show is a revival. I find them behind
the flowerpot where nothing blooms.
I’ve always had a black thumb and you
never wanted to grow houseplants anyway.
I’m lost again. The refrigerator hums
and hums. Sometimes I lose an hour,
waiting here, listening for the melody to come.
If I find the keys, or I lose my shoe, stand
under a marquee, become the heroine
about to burst into song, what happens
then? Can I just kiss you until I am not etched
on vellum, until you know you are more
than a scene left on the cutting-room
floor, until we feel ourselves pressed in—
If I find a shoe or make you laugh, I am palpable.
I want the tension drawn between desire
and fulfillment. Draw me in. The tide is coming,
but I am dazzled by the setting sun’s promise.
–
Jen Stein is a feminist writer, artist, advocate, mother, and finder of lost things in Fairfax, Virginia. Her art and writing are informed by her experiences with advocacy and activism surrounding the politics of the body, disability, and mental health. She’s an assistant editor at Rogue Agent and on Instagram at @jensteinpoetry and Twitter @dexlira.