Ending It Before It Begins
by Terrance Wedin
Pitch your last sentences at each other
the first time you meet.
Sing the kind of songs that are sung in beds
in the middle of the night, or at bars
under dimmed light and spilled whiskey.
Except there’s no crying now, no nasty secrets exposed.
When you tell her you don’t love her,
she laughs and says she’s closing her tab.
Spent from the fight that never came,
you stumble into winter streets.
Heels hanging on crosswalks, you move through
the part where only breath speaks.
Suggest tying your shoes together and throwing
them at telephone wires.
When the words don’t come, take off a shoe
and hold it up to your ear. You’re being direct now.
This is the conversation that takes place years later.
Try to sound older, pretend you’ve grown your beard.
She laughs when she notices the gum
on the sole of your shoe.
When you hang up, throw your shoe
into a sewage drain. Think of it as glass or drywall.
Kiss her at the car with one shoe on, foot freezing,
backseat as bed.
Make sure every time you make love to her it’s the last.
Terrance Wedin, 23, lives in Southwest Virginia where he was born
and raised. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Elimae,
Dead Horse Review, and Word Riot.
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 2, Number 1
Copyright © 2007
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors