WHY I CAN’T HATE YOU EVEN THOUGH I’VE BEEN TRYING
By PAIGE LELAND
Your feet padding against the waxed hardwood. The hard
lines of your body bending into mauve bedsheets.
Your cheek dimple that looks like a half moon pressed
into concrete. The pout of your lip when you blow out
the bedside candle labeled artificial champagne. The
way you butcher arroz and frijoles but invent
machines in your head. Your eyes, transparent blue
like when ice melts. Your eyes looking up at me from
between the thick of my thighs. Your eyes closed and
flickering, but restless before mine at six a.m. Your
bass when we smoke a joint in the car and sing Johnny
Cash and you tell me that you don’t think you could
ever feel like that, but I know
you have an acoustic that you strum
when you’re alone.
Paige Leland is a serial Cap’n Crunch eater, elephant collector and native of Mid-Michigan who graduated with a BFA in Creative Writing last December. Her poetry and prose have appeared in Chicago Literati, The Tahoma Literary Review, The 3288 Review and elsewhere.
Art by C O’Connor.