By Olivia Olson
My man smells like the synth
punches in that Stevie Wonder track
we dance to, padding the carpet
in organ puffs, soft and hollow.
He pulls my wrists like the fiddle
squeal and the clacking branches
they came from. My man sleeps in
Atlantic City, wails from another room,
and I can barely hear him. He invites
the outside in—my man can
sit the winter down, grant the dirty
snow some dignity. Damn, my
man could stitch the stars closer
and hymn the trashy streets into song.
Olivia Olson is a public librarian in metro Detroit where she works to inspire a love of writing in high schoolers. It's easier than it sounds and just as gratifying.