Poolside
by Jodi Aleshire
06/05/2020 | poetry | 1 minute, 20 second read
we lie stretched across the plastic chairs at the hotel pool
both puppy fat soft, fifteen and new new new with
swimsuits clinging to our skin as we look at each other like
we’ve never fucking looked at anybody else
and I don’t know that I love her just that my body
collapses, neutron star blackhole, no understanding
of the wanting under my skin like a snake in the grass
as she tells me how her new boyfriend slid his fingers
inside her and the way it made her feel and I don’t
tell her that I could make her feel better because
at fifteen I won’t know that I loved her until
she leaves me without warning but my mouth is
sawdust dry and aching and my gums throb and
the thin skin of my inner wrist itches as I don’t say
anything as I just nod and pretend I understand
and I watch the floatie in the pool drift past us with
a sort of knowingness I don’t have and I tell her
we should get back in the water before the pool
closes for the night but I don’t tell her it’s just
an excuse to press my body next to hers in the
closest thing to intimacy we’ll ever share.
about Jodi (she/her/hers)
Bio: Jodi Aleshire (she/her/hers) is a recent graduate of Ball State University with a degree in General Studies she’s still coming to terms with. She spends her time crying at art museums, shouting about her trauma to audiences from a stage, and camping outside concert venues for twelve hours at a time. She’s had work published in The Broken Plate as well as The America Library of Poetry, but more importantly, she’s a Libra sun, a Scorpio moon, and a Gemini rising.
Twitter: @stvrwar
Instagram: @stvrwar