Words by Vivian Simon SC ’28

Graphic by Ginny O’Marah SC ’28

Today I sat on the phone trying to talk my way through. I counted the popcorn on the ceiling. I kept as much of a distance as I could and still I felt everything sinking away. At dinner they told me they all have sex. I didn’t believe them for an hour. Then — ALL of you? We were fighting and it wasn’t a fight. On the phone she told me a line from this guy’s poetry and I said it’s overused. The guy said something about his father using his hands when he’s angry because he’s putting the anger into someone else. It was worded more poetically and that was the problem. Often the problem is that poetry is circular. For example, I once read Richard Siken. For a year I was miserable and my writing never got better than that. She’s always telling me that writing is the only way through. I repeat it back to her. She’s cooking gyoza and bok choy on the phone. She says I’m a good writer. I’m laying in this bed and we’re fighting. But it’s not a fight because I love you and I can’t find the words. I’m holding your head and your face is in the mattress. I’m kissing your ear and counting the rings. There’s a light outside that blinds every night. I mean it’s a lamppost. This is like when you’re living with a girl and kiss and everyday someone has a headache. I’m cold because it’s cold and she’s at the desk because that’s where she is.