It’s not worth mentioning
that in the middle of Monopoly
I pulled a cherry cough drop from my pocket
even though he had declined. Tough guy.
That I heard it clink against his teeth.
That I still heard it after an astonishingly long time.
So what if I’m lonely?
When we hug goodbye I say I love you
and hear the hum of the fridge. The lozenge
and its temporary pleasure has finished
doting on him. Backlit
by the kitchen, his eyes are dark
and gleaming like tossed marbles as we
pull apart by the stairs. His voice is cracking
from the cough, he laughs, he’s
not crying. He knows the moment
calls for a tight throat and tears.
I want to coax them from his ducts.
I’d honor those tears by drinking them
but I’m too much of a collector
and want his tears in little Ziplocs,
pressed between two layers of plastic
like flowers. They’ll evaporate, sure,
but salt remains. When I was younger
I had a baggie filled with marbles,
dozens of swirls, preserved
irises. I’d hold each to my eye
and kaleidoscope their many
possibilities. I’d suck on them
in secret.
John Muellner is an LGBTQ writer from St. Paul, MN. He earned his MFA from New York University where he was a Departmental Poetry Fellow. A Pushcart nominee, his work can be read in Denver Quarterly, Emerson Review, Sixth Finch, Court Green, and elsewhere. Currently, he’s a Voertman-Ardoin Fellow at the University of North Texas where he’s working on his Ph.D.