Laura Cronk

FORTY-FOUR

There’s the trout emerging
From the diamond-flecked water 
Shaking off the shards of what’s real
For a realer, wetter lyric

I’m forty-four I know how to step
Around marriage catastrophe
I know how to close the tabs on
Beautiful disruption my layers

Are bunched at the midsection 
Of life which means I know 
How to choose smoothing underthings
I know how to keep the candy

Sealed (wet tongue) in the bag
Stay on the porch (palms wet)
When the joyride pulls up
I can dismiss malware with a glance

And I don’t even know how to dance
(don’t I don’t I don’t)
But the ancestors arrive
Careening from under the floorboards

Bumping and falling down from the air
Coming from above and below
When I’m defenseless on the mattress
They couldn’t care less who’s next to me

The sensation of a mistake is their gift and 
When I’m caught in the sight of that 
Throbbing jewel of a fish again I am
Once more telling old boyfriends I’ve 

Chased through railroad apartments, up Ferris 
Wheels, down stream, how beautiful they are
It’s just one boyfriend, actually,
Meeting him over and over in my sleep

Is the second worst, second most
Inevitable thing I’ve ever done

LAURA CRONK is the author, most recently, of Ghost Hour (Persea, 2020). Her work has appeared in Court Green, Iterant, LitHub, and several editions of Best American Poetry. She is an assistant professor of writing at The New School.