Practice (for being a person)

by Eleanor Colligan

There was a thunderstorm,

so wearing only a sheet 

with cut outs for eyes, 

I crept silent into my friend’s bed,

green body flickering 

like a light. 

On, off, all night, 

two bodies underneath my sheet,

bright as two white moths in the

low-light. 

Her older brother only strayed 

‘cause he said he heard us 

screaming 

Yes, I said: 

Yes: I said: 

Yes.

Author Note: This poem was inspired by Marie Howe.

Eleanor Colligan a writer from the Midwest currently based in NYC. She is a 2024 Brooklyn Poets Fellow, as well as a reader for ONLY POEMS, Muzzle Magazine, and the Blue Marble Review. You can find more of her work in Beaver's Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, the UNDERGROUND, and at theestateofeleanorcolligan.hotglue.me.