Rachael Crosbie
In Which You Said You Wouldn’t Write About Him
CONTENT WARNING: TOXIC RELTIONSHIPS AND SEXUAL SITUATIONS
He basked in unconscious winter, splitting your poems
with chapped hands, and he kissed you—bitter with Grizzly snuff—
his touch callusing. He wanted his wet dog musk
to turn you on, ripe with dead fire and frosted sweat. It didn’t matter
if it didn’t. You bought Circle K condoms when he took you
to the basement for the first time—bright and cold and surgical—
a blanching memory that you couldn’t write about
without writhing out of the poem.
6 March, 2021