By Shelby Platt

I.
We never had to look up each other’s words.
From birth, we were given the same dictionary.

I never shoved him like I shoved my siblings, but
he’d known me to kill. He knew my Medusa stare,

and I knew the sound of his laugh by the shape
of his eyes — and his smile — how can I say it —

he was sunlight. He smelled like warm milk
and peanut butter. He forgot to double-knot his shoelaces.

He had golden retriever eyes, and ate saltines
and piano keys — except for when we’d go out,

then it was always spaghetti and ice cream.
When he called, I used to turn into a swan

and land by his side. His flock continued to grow,
and so many birds brought him their hearts,

like crows bringing golden heirlooms to their nest,
who could blame him if he dropped a few?

Even so, we never lied to each other, except for when
I pretended I hadn’t left my heart in his glovebox.

II.
Your dad parked the van outside to pick me up.
You didn’t get out of the car. I climbed in, said
hello to our friends, to you, and your girlfriend,
wrapped around your arm. You were sunlight
and I — smiled.

III.
She begins to believe they could just be friends,
if they just keep to their usual rhythms.
Usually, they go for walks and long talks.
They bring their friends — a concert of feet.
He brings a guy to the concert. He sets her up.
(You set me up?) He types: I just want what’s best for you.
She believes him. Usually. She wants to get to know the guy, though
the guy’s not her type.
He met the guy at church.
He plays piano at his church. He sings, though, not very well. He believes he’ll be a musician.
They all play frisbee. She loses her keys.
He offers to drive her home. She finds her keys. She invites him and the guy
to her home. He asks with his eyes: do you want me to stay?
[he thinks she might like some time alone with the guy.]
[she doesn’t.] (Stay.) They go sit in the living room and talk.
It doesn’t work out — but she goes with the guy for almost a year, believing it might.
He starts to release his songs; he sings more clearly now, usually.
Now they return to their usual roles: walks at dusk with their friends,
gossiping about television shows and the times they used to have.
Their friendship is resigned to summer vacation, a week after Christmas, and New Year’s Eve.
She starts to believe
they could just be friends.

IV.
Last month I untied my heart
and now I leave it everywhere.
Often I find it in his guitar case, or
by the road where we walk. That’s fine, I say
to no one. It usually wanders back.

–

Shelby Platt is a banana pancake enthusiast from Southern Oregon, currently studying English at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. She enjoys writing and reading poetry, and some of her influences include Mary Oliver, Elizabeth Bishop, and Ama Codjoe.