We used to dip potato wedges
in melted malt shakes.
Spent after schools sprawled
on long stem grass blades.
Filled empty car seats
with our bodies wrapped in each other.
At seventeen, it’s always one tight dress over the other.
Tripping over my own wedges,
I bring you home because more filled seats
at the dinner table makes my mama happy. She shakes
memories of her messy marriage from her memory bank. Like new blades
on a knife, we cut tension with our laughter. Sprawled
on the living room rug, bellies full. Sprawled
between my flannel sheets. Empty house. We fit into each other.
I rub my hand across your cheek, feel the stubble that your razor blade
left behind. A sad thought wedges
itself into my brain. At seventeen, every sad thought shakes
you and the little house of cards you’ve built with your emotions. We find seats
in the back of the movie theater, but I make sure the popcorn bin divides our seats
because I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t need my legs sprawled
in the corner of a dim-lit room. No need to spill our malt shakes
on the already sticky floor. I just want to whisper top-tier commentary with each other.
We both think consumerism wedges
its way into every film these days. Close-ups of Martha Stewart kitchen blades
that you can buy on Amazon after the end credits. At seventeen, blades
never lead to happy endings. We’re the last people to leave our seats
because you’re convinced every director wedges
an end-credit scene in the final minutes of every movie. You’re wrong. Popcorn kernels sprawled
across my lap. They bounce off each other
as they hit the floor. You squeeze my hand because you know how it shakes
when I’m in public. Dressed in a Packers Christmas sweater, you shake
the box so hard it wakes the dog nuzzled between my thighs. I shove a switchblade
in your hand because patience is not a virtue and I know no other
human knows you better than I do. You take a seat
while shreds of wrapping paper are left sprawled
between carpet fringe. Box open, you thank God it’s not another middle-aged man golf wedge —
Now, when someone shakes
my hand, I think of empty car seats.
Long for afternoons blanketed in shredded grass blades.
Seventeen, head buried in your chest, arms and legs sprawled.
Now we’re foreign to each other,
sharing nothing more than potato wedges.