To Strangers
Laura Marostica
Sure miss the vulnerability of chins.
Resolute commute-wearied shoulders, train-swaying hips.
Voices pinging off walls, in bars, spiraling to rooftops:
That rumble and shimmer, that crush.
The clink of your forks. Your child wailing,
Sticky with apple-based products,
Mouth close and wide and tender.
Even your incidental forearm grazes
In plane rows, beside sinks, as audience.
That unsung closeness, that hush.
We used to wait together, for things.
Often now I long for this moment, with you:
A man on a crowded concert floor, overcome
Amid the reverberate thrill of a long-loved
Song (I loved it too), he raised his beer to the stage
In silent broish thanks.
His whole face was right there, his whole
Stubbled enraptured jaw.
How foolish we were, not to reach out
And just—
Laura Marostica's writing has appeared in FEED, Iron Horse Literary Review, Buzzfeed, and elsewhere. She lives in Northern California.