Undercurrent & Quarantine Poem #5 | poetry by Elizabeth Galoozis

Undercurrent

Dim light, din
of voices. 
One drink in,
you pinch my sleeve,
rub the fabric
between your fingers
and get a little skin,
a spark of pain 
running down my spine
toward pleasure.
Another drink
and you’re touching my ring,
your words curious
but your eyes looking like
you want to rip it
off my finger.
We stay up late
like we used to,
roaming rooms 
and sharing cups.
Outside, it’s unseasonably humid.
The sore buds beg
to be burst into bloom. 

Quarantine Poem #5

On the mornings we’re both here and awake
I steam oat milk in your favorite mug. 
Into it, I pour the pulled shots.
This is known as marking the foam.

The mug is one I’ve managed not to break.
Not to mention all I’ve left unplugged,
the cheesecake you worked so hard on that I forgot
on the counter overnight, sweating under its dome.

What streams to us alternates
among period pieces, true crime, real housewives slinging mud.
We wake up cold and go to bed hot, 
to dramas of our own.

We sleep to reruns, wake
to crabs or pugs
in human clothes with human plots.
The pillow, the remote, the water glass, the phones. 

Your lunches for the week are made.
You’ve uprooted the bathroom clog.
It’s been a week since we last fought.
I’m writing you into a poem.