lively things

Amid dive bars, can fires, rats scampering off 

the Baltimore sidewalk into some back alley 

feast, I walk beside the friends I love the most. 

We laugh until our abdomens seize. 

We walk until our toes turn to accordions. 

Don’t tell them I said so (vulnerability wrings

my stomach), but I’d follow them until

I became a pair of shoes piled high with dust. 

Let’s ditch this bar, y’all. We can linger 

by the door, lean against each other, the faded brick. 

Hell, I can always go for an American Spirit.

Let’s rip our insides apart slow and hedonistic. 

See how the light blushes pink as it loses sight of the harbor. 

We shan’t be embarrassed by a little loss, a looming ending!

We’ve all seen a candle extinguish itself. 

It’s colder tonight than it has been, yeah?  

I’ve juggled potentialities all night—them, here, 

them, in other dazzling cities, them, out of my reach—

is this why I teeter towards the water off the side? 

Harbor trash shines scrumptious in the full moon light.  

The city shimmers, absolutely dying for something 

beautiful to happen for us. A round of beers, bartender. 

Sticky floor, hold us in this moment. There should be more. 

I mean beloveds in my arms. I mean days before 

whatever is left of this youth fizzles out and whimpers away. 

Graffiti paints this cave with doodled dicks and dialectics 

we could never make out. I am in tune with my ancestors. 

Surely they spent nights out in strange and new places, 

licking at the salt of memory as its edges formed, 

all before knowing the difference between salt and stone. 

I know tonight will blister my tongue; that’s just fine 

if the alternative is to be alone in a little cage I built myself. 

Bartender, these are my friends. We want to fall in love 

with who and what we can. See us in the mirror behind you? 

I’m there, they are. Tilted towards each other, yes, a shape, 

a night, a life can mean many things. In that reflection

behind the bar we smile, our eyes crinkle, our cheeks ache, 

and our faces—I hope—get stuck that way. 

Noah Powers (they/he) is a Kentucky writer currently balling out in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Their writing can be found in the friendly confines of scaffold, The Bulb Region, HAD, and elsewhere. They can be found on Instagram @noah.powers.