THREE POEMS by REBECCA KOKITUS

THREE POEMS by REBECCA KOKITUS

one pot brownie, split two ways

we’re in Wilmington, but I don’t know how we got here.

you tell me to find some green on the map but
I’m lost and I love being lost.
I know these roads like I know my veins,
meaning: not at all.

my compass needle spine,
stuck between south and west,
neither paradise nor promise.
I never drive north, it seems too easy.

this city is a grid. this place is the GPS, buffering.
some cities do sleep.

we find a nowhere place,
a neon forest where the trees are
wrapped in light. a storybook ghost town.

we’re in Maryland, but I don’t know how we got here.

//

i don’t know how to tell anyone i’m still sad

there’s things we’re told never to do, like drink and drive.

i’m on middletown road with white wine
poured in an empty soda can. my teeth feel
like I’ve eaten something cold or sweet
and the wine aches.

my breakfast every day is a prozac washed down with diet soda.
it makes me feel like static. but it doesn’t make me sad,
not in the way I used to be.

my boyfriend is mad at me because i wrote a poem for someone else.
i don’t know how to tell him that in the same way
that poetry is deeply personal, it isn’t.

I can’t help what still hurts,
I can’t help that I remember things like
his cat having two names
and how much that kind of impermanence scared me
but forget things like how his parents died.

there’s things we’re told never to do.
I’ve broken most of the commandments,
except I’ve never killed anyone, not literally.

//

you still come to my family reunions

I let your calls go to voicemail because
talking to you feels like talking to a ghost.
not of you—of me.

you’re toothache sweet, you’re the cavity
where my soul used to be.

I don’t believe in soul mates
but I believe in the bartering
of soul for soul.

I keep yours in my desk drawer
next to a joint I rolled but never smoked,
next to my social security card
and other things I may need someday.

we’re two people in costumes of our former selves.
me with my uneasy stomach, thinner again
because I can’t remember the last time I was hungry
and you so completely yourself,
but with all your hair fallen out.

lovers at a carnival,
whose hands don’t brush and whose lips don’t meet.

but you bring me a cardboard petal rose you’ve won
and I think, if only we’d been this in love
when we were still in love.


Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. More of her writing can be found in Philosophical Idiot and Lemon Star Mag. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.  

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