An Ode to the Not-Me
I imagine she drives with the sunroof
open. That she slams
the pedals of a hippie van. That she
lives in a house that has a blue ground
floor, but a yellow second. That they are
separated by swirling, scalloped trim.
Her office would double
as a plant nursery that
the cats are not allowed
in. Oh yes, she has cats, two of them,
one for each dog, and a snake, who
curls around the arm like one would hug.
In this dreamscape, this would
not cause her to have to
take so much Allegra.
In her journals, she imagines
my roads; wonders at what speed
I am racing towards her. Analyzes
her face in the mirror, tries
to discern her age. Wonders—
how much longer must she wait?
When decorating, she would
believe in maximalism, pattern-mixing,
bright colors, that are complimentary or
otherwise. In this world, she can have
lots of things while only being
messy in a purposeful way that is pleasing to the eye.
That anytime she hears the birds chirp
outside, she chooses to eat on her porch
over poetry. She would spend too much
time mowing the yard, lost in thought. But
tells herself that this time is required
when the delicacy of a garden, the ancientness
of a tree is considered. Pretends
she does not have to catch
her breath at the thought
of a flat tire. I think she
goes to bed before eleven and
falls asleep in the first fifteen minutes.
In her slumber, she always dreams.
Dreams,
that I don’t miss—
the turn.
Kendall Cruise is a junior English (creative writing) and adolescence education major at SUNY Geneseo. When not obsessively revising their latest piece of writing, she can be found constructing hyper-specific playlists or on The Sims. They are a section editor for their college’s newspaper, The Lamron, and have been previously published in Gandy Dancer and Iris Magazine.