Hours Ago

Upstairs at John’s apartment the cat has fled from me.
I lie on the couch with champagne eyelids.
Tonight the party is a basket and I am a case
of tulips or some liquor. He comes up not to talk to me,
just to ask why I’m not having fun, though in fact
I am having fun because the song playing is about you.
If this were my party I’d wear carnivorous gloves
and find some excuse to touch you. I’d rewrite
my body and you’d see me smooth. If this were
the right year we’d be young and have just met
and you’d carry me down the avenue of trees,
compiling leaves for my hair and stones for my teeth.
On the right evening we wouldn’t have gone to the party.
We would have stayed in bed.

About the Author

Grace Novarr is a writer from Queens. She attended Barnard College, where she edited 4x4 Magazine and the Columbia Journal of Literary Criticism. She works at a literary agency and lives in Brooklyn.