It is 2 a.m. now.
This is the New Year and I have forgiven you.
You wrote “I am sorry” on a yellow Post-it note,
stuck it to the bottom of the toilet seat
so that when I pissed I’d see you hadn’t meant it.
We bought ice cream tonight because you begged.
In the check-out line you joked about Napoleon
while thumbing three shades of drip from the carton’s rim.
Now we sit on the couch with nothing left,
but the final softened wedge of pink shifting around between us.
We don’t want it.
We eat it anyway.
Huddling close you breathe hot on the spoon after the last bite.
Your fog appears and then recedes from the metal.
In the reflection that follows our noses seem huge,
our foreheads nonexistent.
Already we look a little bit happier than last year’s version.
We turn off the TV and pull the blanket over our heads.
I balance the radio just-so between us.
Tonight we steal conspiracy signals from another hemisphere.
Distant places ticking hours ahead of our own lives.
Where the morning light has already been fully affirmed by wine-drunk eyes.
Our ears press against the single speaker like suction cups,
trying to detect our own future in the countless pops and ghost-ticks
that sound out furious between talk of chupacabras and Kennedy’s magic bullet.
About the author:
Damian Caudill is an undergrad at Ohio University in Athens where he spends much time watching his room-mates experiment with their newly acquired, gently used, Fry-Daddy. Successful culinary treats thus far: deep-fried chocolate chip cookies, pickles, and green beans. Unsuccessful endeavors: coffee beans and a 1993 VHS copy of the classic comedy “Cool Runnings.” He’s grateful to have been published a few times in places like The 2nd Hand, Zygote in my Coffee, and Glossolalia. Recently he’s begun work on a collection of short-stories that takes place on the eve of Hurricane Katrina.
