My cream and sugar lover
sits in the cracked orange booth
in plain jane glory. He loves like
He has a picnic basket spine.
I look at him, ask if he wants
to kick cobblestones until one
of us bleeds. To shed red
in a latte foam, lights on water,
women kissing mirrors, city.
Maybe one day, he says. When we’re
older, with enough sweaters
and languages. He stirs the
drink in front of him hard enough
to break wrists. And the future

collapses.

Breia Gore

 

Breia Gore is an Asian-Pacific American poet living in South Carolina. She attends the University of South Carolina where she is pursuing a BA in English concentrated in Creative Writing and minor in film studies. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Lithium Magazine, Adolescent Content, Concept Literary, and Dirty Paws Press. She strives for education reforms in the arts through Teach For America and aims to create her own literary magazine to encourage youths to stay community-engaged and politically active. When she isn’t stumbling over rough drafts or pointing out small animals on walks, she can be found drinking tea and organizing her pens.

© 2018