Tonight's Poet Corner: Not My Kind Of Afterparty

Not My Kind Of Afterparty
by Belinda Roddie

Your grimace stays on tight like an
extra skin. Your hummus-stained
fingers grip the stair rail. You are so
fucking drunk, but somehow, you can
still see only one of me, and not two.

I'll hold you steady with my gaze as
you climb three flights. I'll find you
on the balcony tomorrow, fast asleep,
with the spicy dip still on your lips
and pita chip crumbs on your jeans,
your crossfadedness fading.

Don't worry - I'll get Chad to delete
the photos. I'll make sure that when
afternoon comes around, your dad
will be out of the house. And I'll try
to make you a waffle with ice cream
on top, because that's your favorite

cure for a hangover - even though
it doesn't do jackshit, and you'll throw
up on my shirt and giggle as I rub
your shoulders, waiting for your frown
to come back again.