Halsted M. Bernard

I hadn’t thought of you in a while, and
right when I saw the lanky brunette
swivel side­ways in her plas­tic seat
to let some­one out, I thought of you,
your skin and hair and bones,
so taut and shiny. You were the
epit­ome of “girl” in my world and if
I had a crush on you –
    we all did –
it was because I couldn’t take you apart.
I couldn’t see your sep­a­rate parts.
You were effort­less
and your cig­a­rettes always lit the first time,
and I hated your per­fect breasts
framed by your crisp denim jacket.

After we fought,
and after you left because we fought,
you became the woman on the train,
older and harder and still unwill­ing
to get up for any­one, to move or
to be moved. She swiveled and I saw
the back of your jacket, smelling of
Tide and smoke and grain alco­hol, of
pride. Of what I thought you would give me.
Of what I thought I had earned.

– Hal­sted M. Bernard