‘Shell Shock’, ‘Riot Police’, & ‘Just One More’
Photographer- Perseverance Fey
Shell Shock
I always thought that was a funny term
That should only apply to soldiers with beach-related trauma,
Or maybe to little Sally,
Who got so goddamn tired of selling seashells by the seashore
That she quit and got her MFA,
Only to be haunted in every poem
By those sharp pink edges.
I never thought shell shock would apply to you and me,
Sitting across from each other at the dinner table.
You dive over to tease me
(Like you always did)
And I bury my face in my hands
(I never did this)
And you look at me for a moment
As the smile falls off your face.
Three nights in a row,
I dreamt that I spoke with you.
Three times we made up in the dead of night
And three times I woke up just to find you
Absent from my side;
Your forgiveness rolled in and out like the tide,
So please understand
If I’m hesitant to receive it now.
I do believe that Sally can recover,
That one day she can give her demons a burial at sea
And go to sleep without her tongue
Tied in knots.
I believe that soldiers can reacclimate
To eating lobster rolls,
To seeing mayonnaise instead of mortars,
And I believe that you and I can sit together again.
Just not tonight.
Riot Police
These policemen maintain their composure better than anyone I’ve met in my entire life.
These men are meaty scarecrows,
Brows high and eyes straight forward,
Staring at...
What, exactly?
What’s behind us?
I wonder if it’s any scarier than what’s in front of us.
I tell one a dad joke
And challenge another to rock paper scissors
(He respectfully declines with charged silence)
While a girl twenty feet away screams in a man’s face
That he ought to be ashamed of himself.
Both men react exactly the same way:
Silence.
My friend the nude model once told me he did complicated math in his head
When he didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that people
Were staring at his genitals.
I wonder what kind of calculus these officers are doing.
Maybe it’s chemistry–
The face masks certainly look like it.
It seems unfair to scream at meaty scarecrows,
Because I bet ten years ago half of them would have been screaming alongside us.
When you’re an adult, you’ve got responsibilities,
And some days it’s your turn to wear the clown suit.
When this cop gets home tonight,
I bet his wife will be up waiting for him.
She’ll have been worrying herself sick,
And they’ll sit down in the dining room
And he’ll put his head on the table.
He’ll tell her you call a cow without legs
Ground beef.
Just One More
Outside of Beta Gamma fraternity, you and I run into three Europeans
And they offer us a cigarette.
At this point I am drunk enough that the night
Moves in stop-motion,
But when it’s lit
Even I can tell that I feel nothing.
Maybe we lit it from the wrong end,
Like my dad in grad school;
Maybe we’re not doing it right.
Nope, we smell like shit–
It’s working.
Every time I do this it comes up empty,
Tasting for all the world like putrid orange peels,
But every time I see that speckled little stick
I gotta try it.
I’m like an underage kid at the bar,
A virgin on Tinder–
I haven’t won yet but this time I’m feeling lucky.
The cigarette’s halfway gone and I tap the ash onto my tights
Which miraculously do not burst into flame,
But I can tell from your scowl that you’re not enjoying this either.
We could stamp it out now under our heels
But I like the way it’s held,
Falling away from me then pulled back
Like a girl who I don’t really love
But can’t let go.
I’ve heard that cigarettes are great after sex.
I’ll let you know once I find out
What either one is meant to feel like.
The cigarette’s gone out, by the way;
I’m holding an ashen stub of tobacco
And the Europeans have wandered off to Chi Delt
And still, neither one of us feels any sort of
Head buzz.
Shit.
I bet you the next one would have done it.
Scott Sorensen is currently pursuing an English degree at Dartmouth College. He hopes to become an English teacher and be famous on the way.
