Double Sonnet

They’re walking through the park playing a po-

em in their head, can picture the place where the line

breaks on fracture, looking at the snowy hill

in the dark with their hands in their pockets and chewing a spear-

mint gum. Afraid of slipping, they shuffle boots

over the slick, step on ripples in the concrete path,

root-broken, even away from the trees. A part-

ner is one way of imagining what comes next,

 

they think, and then walk away from the thought

in the dark, past the tennis court’s chain link fence;

its blotchy puddles of terrible ice like winter lakes

under the moony yellow street light. They’ve been

alone for a very long time. They turn

a corner and head toward the people street.

 

After so many former futures,

they know this park, can remember lying

next to an imaginary on the hill,

grass scratching through their T-shirt, the smell

of potential’s shampoo bubbling up inside them

in the sun, buoyant, a crescent above the brim.

 

But now they’re counting meter on their hands

in the dark. And the wind—they can feel it!—is worst

when they’re walking out in the open without

gloves, following brownish footprints in the ice,

noticing their feet as smaller, their eyes

as brutal; when they’ll be in this park this park

for a very long time, and their body carries

cold like sound rattles in an empty glass.

Julia Lattimer is the Editor-in-chief of Breakwater Review. They were most recently named Editor's Choice in the 2019 Sandy Crimmons National Prize for Poetry and run a monthly queer reading series in Boston MA.

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