A Horse Walks Into a Bar and Says He Might Love Me by Paige Leland
says I’m divine like
a banana split he can’t say
no to. When he calls my name
he shouts pomegranate and fake orgasms,
honeybees and dandelion pollen.
I ask him if he knows
I do my makeup in the reflection
of the TV, or that I once moved
to New York to lose fifteen pounds.
I ask if he knows I stopped writing poems
just to prove that I don’t feel anything.
He says no, but remembers the time
I kissed the sweat from his temples and
said it tasted like marshmallow cereal.
He says, nobody has ever told him
something like that before.
Later, when I ask him in leather seats
to go west with me,
and fireflies drop dead from my mouth,
he shakes his head, asks if I know about
the children there,
finger-paint with rattlesnake blood—
how you can hear the clicking of their tails
echo against the window
on the nights you can’t sleep—
Paige Leland is a native of Mid-Michigan who graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from Grand Valley State University last December. Her poetry and prose have appeared in Chicago Literati, The Tahoma Literary Review, The 3288 Review and more.