Who did you last hold hands with in bed and
do memories of her still slow you into sleep.
when you construct a salad do you
think of her while adding green beans because
one ninety-degree afternoon you knelt in the dirt
picking them yourselves.

when you curl clamshell tight around my entire body
do you think about the slight smell of my skin or the difference
between it and hers.

standing in the shower
warming after a day of rain, soaping arbitrarily i wonder
if anyone else will ever love my pubic hair
as much as i do;
what would your answer be to this question.

how long do you plan to stay?

did your heart break recently or ever –
when is recently and do the cracks feel
almost-filled in again

will you use me to fill the rest of them
will you use me to distract yourself
will you use me.

on long car rides, or taking the greyhound back home
have you spent hours alone unraveling
all the secrets kept even from yourself;
if i asked why you still always laugh when you see me smiling
could you tell me? could you tell you.

i can’t do all of this again –
wake up next to someone
each saturday, learn to say love again but
only into my pillow
until the day i feel it almost
jumping from my front teeth

– if they’re just going to show up
right then whispering
no more.
i can’t be expected to keep holding something
together that doesn’t even know what it is
if no one’s here to really
hold me.

Clair Dunlap grew up just outside of Seattle where she started writing poems at the age of six. Her work has previously appeared in Words Dance, BLIND GLASS, The Quarry, and The Norwegian American Weekly. When she’s not writing, Clair can be found doing pilates, laughing, or making things happen as president of the Poetry House at St. Olaf College.