I Wish God Didn’t Always Get Exactly What He Wants

[Poetry]

Wrote this on my sneakers at 15, the summer after you died.
A decade and change later, a baby you’ll never know sings,
He has strong eyes and I know that’s poetry. The tiniest toes
in the world, my big purple ones flutter and curl around his
soul. Can I keep him forever? Can we always go back? Can’t
believe we were ever this small together. Our mothers both have
dead kids. I won’t spin this and turn you into a rocket ship,
or a ghost in the forest. It’s embarrassing, I haven't learned a thing.
Do you know how ugly I feel without you here? I knew a boy
who loved me, maybe. Saw him through a screen window, once.
The doctor won’t stitch an open wound after 8 hours. Instead,
she’ll tell you about the strength of your cells, the dangers of bacteria.
You’re stronger than you think, says my calendar. Says the mentor.
I tell the baby not to pick his nose, but that’s a lie. I pick
my whole body up and down, reflection never relents.
Going to text someone cute, sing into my hairbrush and blast
the worst kind of music. The girl at the bar has no idea P!nk
sang this song. She has no clue who you are, either. If I sit
outside on this bench for the rest of the night, will anyone notice?
Going to call in sick, tell my boss I’m on top of the sun. I think
that kind of excuse will really work this time. The planet will
understand why I had to go research the floods, your face.

Flannery Maeve Rollins has work in The Greensboro Review, WAYE Small Press, Dead End Zine, The Louisville Review, and poets.org. She earned her MFA in Poetry from Rutgers-Newark. She currently serves as a college advisor to first-generation students in New York City.