By Cat Dixon

We text back and forth—volleying 
hello, how are you?, are you okay?, hang in there,
and we promise to get together someday
in the distant future when we will sit side
by side at a table in a Cold Stone Creamery
and pass our poems back and forth—
a tennis match—our pens such sturdy rackets,
the subject a ball, filled with feathers stitched
with thread, we could never serve over
the net. In such an open stance,
feet parallel to the door, torso coiled 
like a snake ready to strike, I always lose
my balance. I’m wobbly and small
like that table waiting for us. Your
calf steadies the table leg to keep
it from teetering. One foot, closer to the exit,
the other ahead, the neutral stance
allows you to shift your weight,
maintain your composure. Do you
remember that Coke bottle I purchased
just because it had my ex’s name on it?
Remember that giant milkshake
with that giant straw? Remember how you
made me laugh until I cried? No, you don’t 
because it hasn’t happened, and we 
are trapped, separate, and the score 
remains love-love.

Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in LandLocked, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Abyss & Apex. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.