TINGE Magazine - http://www.tingemagazine.org

Issue 6

On Impulse

 · Poetry

I often feel
so reasonable. 
More. 
I want a quarter,
a hundred, 
a crew, a V. 
To cross the street, 
take the bank, 
one breath 
down the road, 
easy. 
Afternoon—
January, or Tuesday, 
it’s Wednesday, 
I’m contented, 
fatted off, 
married
—or not
—who knows. 
I felt reason. 
Raison. 
But different,
my reason,
her pelt’s 
French
acrylic squeak
in your teeth.

Over head, 
one arm, 
that neck. 
I want this
sweater— 
who doesn’t?  
My brother. 
Who does?  
My sister. 
All we do—
want and more, 
distraction, 
easy, rose 
smoke 
and polka dots. 
I want it bad 
new arms, 
youth’s boxy top:
I miss pleats. 
I want reason for myself. 
See, poor January?  
A Tuesday, I’ve been
just a taste. 
That’s snacking. 
What I want—
I mean, thinking. 
Not long 
do I afford reason—
just reeling in 
my need, 
hot and raw.

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