February 9, 9:36 AM (Her Key)

by Olivia Heenan

I wonder if he thinks of me on Thanksgiving
When he touches the four corners of the earth
I know he doesn’t celebrate such a boxed-in idea
But on the off chance he sits at the table
With some lovely host inviting him to the painfully Caucasian holiday
I wonder if he feels my silver skin
His hand reaches up to raise his glass
Instead, it lands on my hips and he looks up to greet my eyes

I hope he forgets all about me until he turns to the clock
I am heart to heart while he reads me like braille
Then he’s back to reality
No, me and a group of seemingly less exciting people
But it doesn’t last

I find myself taking up religion and witchcraft for divine intervention
I beg all these forces for one thing
Five seconds in fall
Where he is entranced holding nobody at all