long one o’clock on the garden furniture
the party lights glittered in dimness.
you wore old brown leather
smelling of cider
but your breath reeked of whisky.
the bottle lay half-empty in your pocket,
its fullness discharged in my beer
both libation and interest
in an otherwise tiresome affair.
we spoke in the branches, hidden by leaves,
until it was way past midnight
and we let the candles glitter
in their cages of broken
party light glass.
there were three hundred
long meaningful looks
that evening, that particular
night full of arson and
hot dogs and cheese straws.
your old jacket and your old eyes
and dripping wax and Jodie burning
herself for fun.
I recall you said she was fucked up.
it lasted three hundred years
and no one knew.
once it turned late, your resistance gone,
you laid your head on my breast and
slurred your words and I
stroked your hair
while the time passed.
and the candles just went on
© Anna Reith. All rights reserved.
Available in the print volume House of Choices: collected poems.