Matthew Gellman

by Matthew Gellman

There are so many questions the rain in a city
will turn into answers. Will there be flooding

becomes: Of course. Why didn’t he come back
becomes: he didn’t. It’s like that. But you remember

mornings mimicking couples you’d seen in movies.
How his hair looked tied in a bun. How he’d use

words like proclivity. You met him at a party upstate
and walked home together, passing a muffled campfire,

shapes painted on the water tower, joints scattered
like the season’s first flowers. He looked down,

as boys do when telling the truth about themselves.
The window gets stuck. You try all morning to close it.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.

Matthew GellmanMatthew Gellman’s poems are featured in Poetry Northwest, Narrative Magazine, The Journal, Sugar House Review, Thrush Poetry Journal and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from Columbia University and teaches at Hunter College.

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