The problem with the past is that it lasts forever.
Ten years from now I will still be lying
on my bed trying to write this poem.
My husband will still be sitting near me
checking his email and watching video tutorials.
Sometimes I get lost in the concept of time.
Like how as soon as I type a word it is gone,
but the next one comes and then the next and the next
and eventually I realize the whole world is made up
of little clicks, a chain of events that doesn’t exist.
The proof is in the reading, in the memory, in the passing on.
Ten years ago I was drunk and driving myself and a lover home.
I was concentrating on keeping the dotted lines
to the left side of the car when he told me I love you.
I kept driving straight and said great, let’s get married.
He said fine, but only if we remove your legs
so I can spin you around on my dick.
We laughed then, got home, stumbled upstairs to my bed,
passed out upon each other, and woke up tangled,
the day almost over. I am not that girl anymore,
but I will always be that girl. That lover is gone and my husband
likes my legs the way they are. But when I hear the word spin
my mind thinks of love. When I drive late at night
the road blurs and I wonder if I’m still drunk.