portion of the artwork for Katherine Fallon's poetry

Asheville, NC, 2000: BJ, Refusal
Katherine Fallon

Our friends were watching the sun rise
over some foothill and I’d insisted on

staying behind because I wanted to kiss her.
I did my best but our knees were an inch

apart and she never once reached out.
Now I know thirty-three and see she couldn’t

with me, just nineteen, which is the reason
she gave me, but it wasn’t only that:

in her bedroom, a bureau, stained
unfashionably dark, with a silvered mirror

on beveled spindles, glass so thick
with dust that someone had scripted “please”

across it with one finger in a languid,
practiced hand. She didn’t want to talk about it.

We went to bed before our friends returned,
divided by two snoring dogs for her protection.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 55 | Spring/Summer 2020