Ride Or Die – Betsy Housten

Seventeen and daring the darkness
for an adversary, you and I’d go driving
through the hills of the Delaware Valley:
the blind curves of 519, that stomach-
dropping dip on Rick Road. Every street
our own private rollercoaster. There were
particulars, of course, like how I’d first
settled for your best friend, how I let him
put his hand in my bra, kissed him while
thinking of you – that peculiar algebra
of proximity unrequited crush craves,
like between both of you I had everything
I’d ever need. And then the particulars
changed, and suddenly you liked me back,
and we sat on my porch and hashed it out;
we’d have to be careful a while, you said,
keep it under wraps. You were thinking
of your friend. I nodded like I agreed,
though really I was dying to get on with it,
our long-awaited joyride, knowing I was
probably a terrible person, not caring.
My ship had come in: your hand in mine,
finally, your laugh like dry leaves as we
flew through the night, wild, awake.

 

 

Betsy Housten is a Pushcart-nominated queer writer and
massage therapist. Her work appears or is forthcoming at the Academy
of American Poets, Bone & Ink Press, Cotton Xenomorph, Glassworks
Magazine, Lunch Review and elsewhere. She lives in New Orleans, where
she is pursuing her MFA in poetry and tweets @popcorngoblin.

Contents Drawer

 

Image: via Pixabay

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