Dustin Brookshire is a Georgia native and Dolly fanatic that calls Atlanta home. His work has been published in numerous publications and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Visit his site.
© 2011 Dustin Brookshire
I never liked Christina
but here I am complimenting her hair,
telling her how good she looks,
and I actually mean it.
Christina tells me I should leave
as a concert starts
in the middle of the neighborhood park.
A man drops from a platform
that appears as suddenly
as a summer thunderstorm.
This man, this hunk,
part Bill from True Blood,
part Enrique Iglesias.
Christina says leave
as you appear in a front row seat
and then run to the stage.
Bill-Enrique pulls you to him for a kiss.
My face turns red like Christina's hair.
She pats my back; she thinks I want you.
I wake as I lean to whisper
I should have been the one kissed.
THE FLOWERBED OF REGRET*
His hands flare like chrysanthemums
in the movies: wide to cover your mouth,
wide to press your hands
into the bed.
That night, it wasn't a movie,
when he pressed his hands into mine,
into the mattress I later burned.
His hands were once beautiful
like a bed of chrysanthemums
when they stroked my jaw line,
caressed my back, pulled me into him.
And, now, I still feel his hands
that are smaller than mine
as I wake from the repeating nightmare.
God damnit, why didn't you fight?
*First line is from Christopher Tozier's "Summer Evening, Hopper 1947"
All work is property of Dustin Brookshire.
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