【by Paulina Campanella】

I Wave at People in the Halls
so often I wrote my college essay
on it. Little fires spark with every
cross-campus smile as they grow into
orange flames that light up the village.
These small flashes are the hearth of
my high school life. This is the way
I make friends.

How did I lose sight of the fire we
ignited? After years of kindling
the flames, did its blazing light finally
blind me? I used to live in the warmth of
your car, of study nights on your
kitchen table and happy birthdays in
the cafeteria. Now, I cannot even
trace the smoke back to you.

The long walk to class is cold here, like
the black roof suffocating the sun
in this infinite winter. I have no
minor acquaintance to flicker with
a smile or wave. I am insulated by
campus borders and state lines, but
sometimes in this extinguishing darkness,
I wish to be burned.


Trophies Sure Make Pretty Bookends
Two small gold-flecked men
pose on the shelves above my desk
like a pair of plastic Olympians.
They shout “FRIENDLIEST” and
“SOCIAL BUTTERFLY” from my
yellow walls that glow whenever I
finally open the blinds.

They used to huddle like brothers but
parted ways—now my Hemingway
collection from the antique shop stands in
between. I no longer smell marshmallows
melting around a campfire when they
call out my name as I sleep.


I Drink Soda Like Fine Wine
On my birthday you announce you
pinned our picture to the wall of your
new place in Jersey where your friends
got wasted last night. I am an
unplugged lamp in the dim lighting
of Scaramella’s—but you stare at me like
I’m a night-sky star and cover the bill,
because tonight is my night.

I order a Mug Cream Soda—not what
a freshly-crowned adult typically tries to
score—but I’m leaving for college in
three days, so I want to feel like a kid. And
hey, today is my birthday.

Soda is a nostalgia cocktail, to be
wafted and sipped on special occasions.
At Trinity, the soda fountains don’t have
Mug, and anyway, it would come out flat,
like everything else.


Our Texts Are Like Emails, Now
re: long paragraphs I mark as unread
until my single dorm is so empty I can’t
breathe because it feels like the air
is gone. I read your long list of
answers to my long list of
questions and draft responses to
the questions you ask. I am
your methodical friend.


Only when you attach a file of
poetry do I know how you
are really doing. I may not
understand you anymore, but
I know how to workshop.

Last week, I saw your new tattoo on
your story, but your poem tells
its story. You write about your
mom and late-night drives through
the village, and I remember what you
mean to me. It’s easy to forget when
I float into the rooms I know you are
not in. Love is not always peace.

But it is for me, so I don’t text any
attachments. I lie about writer’s
block every month, because I am not
a petty person. It is far too obvious
who is my muse.


C U in the Village
It will happen before either of
us reaches out to meet up. Luckily,
no one will be embarrassed. We had
a feeling it would happen—you can’t
go to the village without running into
the last person you want to see. “It’s
a prophecy,” we once joked.

You’ll wear your crown of adulthood like
a choker, while I’ve hidden mine on a shelf above
my desk. Your heart-shaped sunglasses will
catch a glint of sun, a fuchsia flare that will
strike the metal chairs outside Mimi’s. There,
sipping a Mug Cream Soda float, I’ll see
you smoking in the alley by the train station.

These details may not be set, but against
the red brick of the village walls, I know how
I will react. Suddenly in the summer heat, I
finally sweat, despite the cold drink. You look
cool as ever. Within the humid stillness we
create, I can match you now. I wipe the sweat off
my forehead with my free hand, and wearing
warmth in my smile, I will wave.