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Angelina Oberdan

July 27, 2014

It Only Happened Once

 

Parked in an empty lot, I think about you, scrutinize how it might be, the intimate details of its skin and scars. But it isn’t enough, and I drive home, muddle to bed. The next day I ache as much as if we’d been together, cracked skin and bones that seem forced wider than before. Did we? Did I tell you that I want to know all of you? Maybe I harassed you, disturbed our coveted distance, assaulted your composure. And perhaps, I was your predator, hungry for the carnage our bodies could create. I am, after all, the pervert who tries to get off in public parking lots. And what if you know? I want you, just once, too hard, quick enough to know. I want to feel you’ve thought of me, too. I want to gasp because you’ve hounded my hips, waist and thighs, the way I could be bent and entered, the way, afterwards, I’d shrug on my ravished clothes and leave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angelina Oberdan earned her MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) at McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and she is currently a lecturer at Clemson University. Most days she sits at her kitchen table and stares out of the window at her yard, and on rare days, she actually writes something. Her poems are forthcoming or have been published in various journals including The Bayou Review, Yemassee, Cold Mountain Review, Italian Americana, Louisiana Literature, and Southern Indiana Review.

 

 


 

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