i fidget absent-mindedly with its sharp
edge, like a cracked tooth i can’t stop finding
with my tongue. i was right about phoebe bridgers
and everything else. someone bothers me
for a light and i cup my hand to block
the wind, offer them the way your eyes
followed me from the bed to where i stood
naked and you asked if i wasn’t twenty-
two. the greatest praise you could think
to give: that i am not what i am. i’m
still pissed you skipped the dog’s
birthday party on zoom. a stick of
gum, a set of keys, your stupid smirk and
forty-odd houseplants thriving off neglect.
what good is a south-facing window when it
blinds us every morning? i find a five-dollar bill
with your face on it in the coat i wore that
winter. the diamond ring you bought me, cheapest
of its collection, is no longer on my finger. with
fists balled in my pockets, i’ll keep holding on
to all the ways i hate you.
Raised in the Canadian prairies, Glennys Egan writes poetry in Ottawa, where she works for the government like everyone else. Her writing has appeared in Taco Bell Quarterly, Funicular Magazine, and several other lovely places. You can find her and her dog, Boris, online at @gleegz.