Leigh Chadwick
For foreplay, I don’t have sex with our marriage counselor. The pineapple we bought on Tuesday is ripe. I come four times before lunch. After, I take a nap and dream in assembly lines. When I wake up, I am dressed in left turns. Outside, the woods are gaining weight. The trees are starting to look like trees, again. I haven’t checked the mail in weeks, so I go out to the mailbox. It’s filled with frequent flier miles and an RSVP from our neighbor inviting us to come watch him mow his lawn. You’re still getting nosebleeds. You tell me not to worry, but I worry. I think it’s spring, but I never took calculus in high school so it’s impossible to tell. In the guest bedroom, I can hear Sisyphus yawn. You tell me it’d be nice to find some air, so I pour us each a glass of grapes and we go out into the backyard. The sky is dim, like the lowest setting on a lamp. It’s clear enough that you can look up and not get lost in thought bubbles. I point to the brightest thing above us. Do you think that’s the moon or a hangnail? I ask. I’m not sure. I never am. Below the moon or the hangnail, the grass grazes my ankles. It makes me think of antlers, but I don’t know why.
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Leigh Chadwick is the author of the poetry collection Your Favorite Poet, the chapbook Dating Pete Davidson, and the collaborative poetry collection Too Much Tongue, co-written with Adrienne Marie Barrios. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Salamander, Passages North, The Indianapolis Review, Identity Theory, and Hobart, among others. She is the executive editor of Redacted Books and is also a regular contributor for Olney Magazine, where she conducts the “Mediocre Conversations” interview series. Leigh can be found online at http://www.leighchadwick.com and on Twitter at @LeighChadwick5.
