I dreamt the boy



I dreamt the boy back into
being the high school digressive
and indistinguishable mark I
cackled under his window my hot friend
princessed for a pill. I ever yes
and yearned. The year split. Was his
kiss glue I hid in bags to gasp? He put me
on a list to board and rock. He’s stupid. Irrelevant
mouth name. Probably laughs if anything probably
never thinks me to thick. Imagine a hip
stopping imagining. I dreamt chance
open, dreamt leather weather, being known.

I go back to the house



I go back to the house on Magazine
Street and the actress is still there and we
air kiss—cloud, cloud—on the steep narrow
stair. I go to the door and there is no
door just open space and my cat
longer and not blind sitting
on the hard wood satisfied, I think,
but not touched, and I touch her
soft long—I miss—why have I
left—her—in the warm—forever—
and floodless hour. This is a story
in which the arrows are scars.

Anne Marie Rooney is the author of No Beautiful (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2018) and Spitshine (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2012). Her poetry has been twice featured in the Best American Poetry anthology, and has been the recipient of the Iowa Review Award, the Gulf Coast Poetry Prize, and others. She lives in Baltimore.