what you were looking for, yesterday night, with your keys dangling falsely
still by your fingers—you never found it but you did enjoy the chase,
and the shuffle, the exhale, and her apartment shaded unfamiliar in the dark;
you liked opening the refrigerator, and its chirp so loud your girl stumbled in,
doe-eyed, asking what you’re looking for—she had you so close
and still assumed you’d be searching—but you were, she’s
right,
you’re always hungry, diluting another truth and playing another game, and
there was always somewhere else you needed to be—a couch crush without
anything like wanting, nothing as undesirable as that, you knew even with her
next to you, you’d bird-peck at the smallest portion you could so some of you
could be left unsatisfied—yes, when she asks, tell her about the urges; just how
much of yourself you have yet to discover; her image, whatever, or really
that time when you camped somewhere in Tahoe and woke up to the rustling
of deer instead of the bears you expected, how they leapt through the trees at
your flashlight beam and how you knew, then, that everything you hoped for
was nothing more than a series of lights, that you were never made to hold,
if you had kept the dark in your hands the deer could’ve found their way
to your palms, listen, say that every day since you have come up so empty
Noralee Zwick is a student and poet based in the Bay Area, California. A California Arts Scholar and Iowa Young Writers Studio alum, their work can be found in orangepeel mag, Blue Marble Review, and Polyphony Lit, among others.
