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.