BY E.B. Schnepp
where it’s still 1982 and he’s bleach
blonde, leather, and studs growling everything
I need to know about love and I’m in my bedroom
waltzing in stocking feet to White Wedding,
Rebel Yell, eyes closed tight; you can waltz to anything
if you try hard enough and don’t know what you’re doing.
And I like to tell myself I’m in love with him, this ghost
who keeps me company at 4am, but I still won’t open my eyes
in case he’s unfurled himself from his nest in my speakers,
joined me as the music shifts to something slower,
I barely notice. They’re all the same; lessons in love
and heartbreak baby won’t you love me back, I’ve waited so long,
been so patient, baby I’ll give you everything you could ever want—
this is what I mean when I say I’m afraid. I’m already haunted
by a series of identical men, all shouting out drivers’ side windows
and I’m not sure who decided this was romance. All I know
is I’m only interested in three men; Prince Charming,
Koschei the Deathless, and Billy Idol, even if I don’t let him out of my radio,
even if I keep my eyes closed, insist I’m waltzing alone. But,
in my lucid dreams I’m married and not to any of these
or their facsimiles and this is another type of haunting. Waking up,
remembering I’m not alone, remembering the man
who’s supposed to be in bed beside me and I hold my breath
wishing he wasn’t here. Three alarms later giving in to the morning
only to find he isn’t here after all, my husband whose name and face I know
and whose ring is still heavy on my left ring finger a week after I wake—
that first morning I tore all the blankets off the bed,
threw the pillows on the floor; as if I dug deep enough I’d find him
asleep or hiding, some strange game to see if I could miss him.
In an odd way I did, maybe that’s how all of this began,
the haunting, resurrecting my own ghosts, Billy Idol,
who I’d left in the radio for so long invited out again. The same old songs,
same awkward movements, same eyes closed tight, though some nights
there’s a weight in my arms that feels so real I keep swaying,
keep up this weak attempt at dance until morning breaks
through the curtains to burn him away, eyes closed so I can pretend
this too is just a dream that stuck around longer than it should.
E.B. Schnepp is a poet currently residing in Chicago. Their work has been featured in Poetry Daily and can be found in Nat. Brute, South Dakota Review, and Iron Horse Review, among others.