He says things the way spilled
milk does, calcium cutting and bone

dry, so I cry about it. We stand outside
a Mexican diner and an Open sign’s

screaming red and blue all over his face
as he tells me he needs something more. My

feet are given to street gutters like sylvan city
brooks floating face-up under moon

and skyline, and a streetlamp careens its
hands through his hair, down his shirt,

wraps around his marrow. I spill my hand into
his trying to offer an impossible more.

—-

Jackie Braje is a Brooklyn-based freelance writer and the secretary for literary agency Harold Ober Associates, Inc. Her work has also been featured in The Nottingham Review, Dark River Review, BlackBook Magazine, Neon, Rat’s Ass Review, and various others. She is still determining the rest.