BRYANNA LICCIARDI

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Thoughts I Don’t Share While Out to Dinner with a New Guy

They say a lady never orders more than one cocktail,
which is why I carry a flask in my purse.

It’s hard to concentrate. Your biceps are quite distracting.

I’ve been told I have intense eye contact—
tell me what you think of me.

Mother just texted. She likes the picture I took of you
ordering the chicken, thinks we’ll make
an adorable Christmas card.
The women in my family are notorious.
We always think ahead.

If an octopus and a penguin mated,
what would they call it? An octo-guin?

My best friend stole my boyfriend, then married him.
What justifies betrayal? Does imagining
her heel, or her neck, snapping
as she walks down the aisle
make me a bad person?

A penga-pus?

I’ve grown fond of falling asleep to the coital sounds
of my upstairs neighbors. When I leave town,
I bring a recording to help me sleep.

Gravity is my favorite force,
the way it gives grace to everything
that falls, and I regret not being perfect.

Gravity is my favorite force,
the way it gives grace to everything
that falls, and I regret not being perfect.

Though you won’t love me the way I need,
I’ve already let myself believe you will.

There is a piece of spinach in your teeth.

A Millennial’s Unwritten Odes to her Many Terrible Jobs

To the man who ordered from me
a hamburger. I’m sorry.
I wanted to kiss you,
because you smelled like sage,
but didn’t, because
you had too many kids.

To the boss I had at Kroger
who consistently protested
my pants were never black enough.

To that time I worked at a gym,
and overheard this sweaty,
spandexed woman tell someone
that looking like me
would be her nightmare.

To the gym.

To the dad at the drive-thru window,
for asking me to go out with
his 12-year-old son
because he just won third place
at a skateboard contest,
and deserved a hot date.

To my movie theatre manager
who dared me to eat
an entire box of Twizzlers,
who laughed when I puked,
who fired me two weeks later.

To that same boss
who only escorted Elise
to her car at night,
and not me,
because I looked like “the kind of girl
who doesn’t get mugged.”

To the hair dresser
that time I worked at a hair salon
for giving me a free haircut
and then afterwards complaining
about my terrible haircut.

To the 5-year-old girl I caught
in the salon’s bathroom,
desperately licking the wall.

To her parents.