Laurie Uttich

TO MY STUDENT WITH THE DIME-SIZED BRUISES ON THE BACK OF HER ARMS WHO’S STILL ON HER CELLPHONE

Oh honey, you can text him, you can like his meme, you can
follow him on Twitter and to Target, you can ride shotgun, hold
his anger on your lap, pet his pride, be his ride or die. You can
wear those jeans he likes. You can discover Victoria’s
secret, buy a bra with a mind of its own. You can
recite I’m sorry like it’s a Bible verse and Snapchat the shit out

of those purple roses he bought you at Publix. You can try
every one of Cosmo’s 30 Ways to Give an Ultimate Blowjob.
You can remember the name of his mother, his best friend
in 2nd grade, the lunchroom lady who gave him extra
chicken strips on Tuesdays. You can grow out your bangs, toss
your hometown over your shoulder, sleep facing north
with your cheek in his back.
You can strip yourself for parts. But, baby,

it still won’t be enough. You can love him, but you can’t pull
his story out of the dark and slide your arms into it. You can’t
wash it and lay it flat in the sun to soften. You can’t
hold his face in both of your palms and watch tomorrow
bloom from the sheer wanting and waiting of it. It doesn’t
matter if his daddy talked with his hands or his bloodline
is marinated in booze or his mama loved his brother best.
You can’t fix what somebody else broke.

So, girl, put down your phone and pick up
your pen. Take a piece of the dark and put it on a page.
Sylvia Plath waits to wash your feet. And look,
Virginia Woolf has built you another room and painted
it pink. There’s a place for you at the table. Sit next to me;
I got here late. Oh, baby, don’t you feel it? You were knit
for wonder in your mother’s womb.
You were born for the driver’s seat.

—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020
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