When I heard that you
passed away, I drove thirty
years, back to the library.
Our table was still there.
Where I had set down my
books and you looked up.
All dimples and snark,
sharp in my neck.
I didn’t care and bit
your lip. You smiled,
every time, said you loved
it, but left me alone
at Homecoming, roaming
the hotel in my first
little black dress.
You found me past
midnight in some
hallway, poured your
apology down my
eyes, kissed me
slow, no biting.
I left my throat in three
more ballrooms before I ran
my finger down the side
of your face, then let
my friends bundle me
up, drive me home.
As I left the library,
I had a vague memory
of you calling again
and again. I buckled
my seatbelt, remembering
how many times
other boyfriends said
I went cold. I drove
past the high school,
wondering if I was
always waiting
for you, them,
to find me—not
because I was left
alone, but running.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 4.
Stefanie Leigh is a poet and professional ballet dancer based in Toronto. A graduate of Columbia University, she danced with American Ballet Theatre and recently returned to the stage after many years away. She leads generative writing workshops and speaks about artistic voice across disciplines. Her poems have appeared in Rust & Moth, ONE ART, SWWIM, Thimble Lit, The Inflectionist Review, and elsewhere.
See all items about Stefanie Leigh
