by Caitlin Cowan

“Maybe distance is what I know of men.”
—Diane Seuss

Have you ever seen a zen wishing stone or whatever
sad version the West sells in the neon kitsch of its dying
shopping malls? You write in water to watch it go—
something you want to disappear (pain) or something
already gone (you). I used to cry over that video I took
one night at Beans: August in Texas and you were nothing
but sweat, three buttons undone. You traced our names
in pint-glass condensation on the table’s graffitied wood.
Each word (meditation) laments what it really wants (ruin).
S + C you swirled into the sun-bleached planks, racing the heat
that wouldn’t let our seeds blink open. The distance between
what we wanted and what we had—back then, it was unbearable.
The beer garden evaporates. Our initials in your wet cursive:
headstone after headstone while we both looked on, still breathing.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Born and raised in the Midwest, Caitlin Cowan’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in New Ohio Review, Pleiades, Anomaly, SmokeLong Quarterly, Rappahannock Review, and elsewhere. She’s taught writing at the University of North Texas, Texas Woman’s University, and Interlochen Center for the Arts, and serves as the Director of International Tours at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. Find her at caitlincowan.com.