You Really Killed That ’80s Love Song

Analicia Sotelo

Now someone else is kissing him

on a wrought iron balcony

above a karaoke bar,

and it’s not animal,

exactly, not pretty either,

the drunken howling behind you

as you act like you’re not watching,

like you’re talking on the phone

on a wet, Texas night

instead of doing

what you should have done before.

Now it’s raining harder.

Now you’re driving home at 2 a.m.

on a road that’s slick as sex

and you can still hear your friend David

saying there’s no way you could be

in love if you’ve never been loved

in the first place.

Now you’re curled in bed.

Now the sun drifts to your knees.

Now you’ve discovered

humiliation is physically painful:

the crown-like stigmata of a peach

that’s been twisted, pulled open

and left there. The juices must run somewhere.

You can’t help but imagine the knife in his body,

her body, the pink, cloudy aubade

you were waiting for.

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