Years Later

by Tiffany Belieu

Eric Nopanen

A radio speaks, suddenly like an old friend.

Garage band Sunday grace. Stolen drugstore perfume.

Ran the cheap stuff across your wrist. Scent

of Summer 97’, baby oil & snuck cigarettes.

You taught me how to curl my lip, to make a fist.

An unending bruise throbs velvet violence. Our adolescence,

the suddenness of you going. Left no scars

but a constant sharpness —  glass just beneath skin.

Each time our movie plays until it degrades,

until our faces change places with the stars. Golden,

guilt weights my neck but you’re no longer

here and I always needed your hand for the clasp.

---

Tiffany Belieu is working hard on her dream of writing. Her work is published or forthcoming in Back Patio Press, Q/A Poetry, Muskeg Magazine, Rabid Oak and The Mantle, among others. She loves tea and cats and can be found @tiffobot on Twitter