Lauren Ireland is reading poetry on Saturday
in Philadelphia, at the Chapter House.
She may have a book of some kind--
a chapbook--she might read from that.
Her hair could be any color, any length;
like so many of us, she changed it often.
I imagine it will be a strange home-
coming. I imagine her fingers form fists
when she's fighting back thoughts
at sleep or in the mid-day demon time
when her mind wanders to him--the man
we shared for a small period--
to his plain faced lies and rhetorical
flourishes. I swear to God it knocked me cold.
These things. And others. The worst of all indulgences:
remembering someone as they hurt you.
And though I am curious--
to see you and hear what you're thinking
about anything really--
I am afraid my presence poses the threat
of another indulgence: two women, having a drink,
bitching about some old dick.
Abbi Dion
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