Tonight's Poet Corner: Craic

Craic
by Belinda Roddie

This is the part of the story where
I close my eyes and focus on the spots
and the flickers of orange, like a personal
bonfire held behind latex-thin eyelids.
This is the part where I forget that last time
I saw you, we were drinking beer and cider
and listening to Irish music in a San
Francisco bar, and there was a reading
afterward - Irish, too, a drunk comedy,
maybe a drama if we all sobered up soon.
I always wondered, deep down, what you
thought of me. If my bulky frame looked

awkward in a man's jacket that was still
too big for me, my morals stuffed in the
pockets of my jeans, denim daydreams
littered with clawing fingers of lint. I waited
over an hour for you to show up. And when
you did, the conversation felt as fluid as
the taps behind us. The spigots added noise
almost as natural as a waterfall on tape. It may
have lulled us to sleep, were it not for the
people talking around us, or the rough accents

of the actors clinging to their scripts like
sheets of extra skin to cover invisible burns.
Did you enjoy yourself that night? What part
of my dialogue felt good enough for a television
pilot? Did my words stitch themselves seamlessly
into the hem of your skirt? You held your pint
glass like a mirror - the reflection was distorted,
but in the amber, your gaze still lingered. And
above the brim of the glass was your smile,
and I kept wondering why I focused so hard
on that smile. This is the part of the story
where I forget all of that. Where I try my

damndest to remember the fiancée who waited
for me at home that night, the woman I ended
up marrying and wouldn't give up for
Aphrodite. I'd never let her go, and I know
how a game of "What if" can mutate into a
round of Risk. It ends with me throwing the
board across the room, scattering the pieces,
so I can pretend I never even played it. Rolling
dice isn't worth it unless snake eyes are lucky.
All eyes on me. Her eyes on me. Your eyes on
me. So different in hue. Aquamarine to dark
topaz, or jasper, or quartz. Crystal. Not like

the color of dying embers among leaves when I
keep my own eyes shut. If I forget this chapter. If
I forget the animalistic side of me that wonders what
it'd be like to be with you. If my wife had never
been a part of my story. If you had been written
in the text instead. And if, much like those desperate
to sail from the shores of Ireland, you would even
want to stay with me on the same page.