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 Contents | April 2003 More on poetry from The Atlantic Monthly. |
My Last Hangover
She wakes in the morning to lookby Jesse Iott ..... out the window at the spaces in the air where there should be birds. From the bed I watch as she stretches, her shoulders changing colors in the light. "This is the last time," I try to promise. "It's okay," she tells me, rubbing her eyes. The last time we visited Chicago the saxophone player on Michigan Ave. told her that she was an ocean. You're an ocean, babe. The next morning we shuffled into the brightly lit hotel lobby, the only couple in our pajamas, everyone eating pancakes in the graying dawn. Now it is the last time ever. She turns to the window again, raises one arm above her head to check her underarm for stubble. In a few hours she will kiss me good- bye before letting my hands drop and climb into her car, leave for work, release me back into the world again.
Jesse Iott is a student at Kenyon College. Copyright © 2003 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved. The Atlantic Monthly; April 2003; My Last Hangover; Volume 291, No. 3; 43. |
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