By Cassandra Caverhill
Maybe it was because Michael’s bummed that the girl he’s pining for is taken (It’s not over, he said, but it’s an obstacle). He took my offer & tagged along for four stops: The pharmacy, the grocery, the gas station, the art store. For years, Michael was always saying how quickly I moved, literally & figuratively, & I know it now, the contrast sharp as he shuffles sluggish behind me in the cosmetic aisle while I search for a product that promises to be a Master Fixer. He gives me enough distance to be a stranger as I pick up birth control. As I cop feels of fresh produce, he jokes that he might as well punch himself in the face if God is going to keep doing it anyway. The tank takes nine gallons of unleaded while he emits nine sighs. At the craft store that bears his name, an old woman gazes hopefully at us & I want to clarify we’re not together anymore, though men only follow women into this place involuntarily. I grab two pads of paper capable of absorbing all the tears I’ve cried without weakening. They were buy one get one half price.
Cassandra Caverhill is a Canadian-American poet, editor, and creative writing instructor. She’s the author of Mayflies (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and her prose and poetry have appeared internationally in journals across the US, Canada, and UK. A karaoke and cycling enthusiast, Cassandra lives in the borderlands of Windsor, Ontario. More at casssandracaverhill.com.
MoonPark Review 