“Raincheck” by Francesca Huynh

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Clearly, I said, clearly.

It’s not you- I just don’t want to

he spills, each word biting
the warmth our bodies have created,
each bit of quiet flushing blood to my ears

Can I take a rain check?

Oh honey,

take it with a one way ticket
Flood your now foreign flesh
with my lived pains, the one word
I’ve absorbed, expelled, and reabsorbed

Now I say no.

No to only my history
bare for dissection
No to being missed
without my spine against the faucet
of the restaurant bathroom

I’ve collected your rain checks
they’ve managed to slip past
the slits of my cupped hands into my ears
and now I’m placing them back
at the back of your throat waiting for you
to swallow each one of them dry

Can I take a raincheck?

It’s not you- I just don’t want to
leave my shadows clinging nicely
so I’ve cleansed them of red,
of your body, your handprints
from the bathroom sink

Clearly, I said, clearly

I’ve gone without approval
and all of our treaded surfaces
still make your lips unfurl
wishing you’d said yes


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Poems curated by FORTH poetry editors.


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