The Man in Blue Orders Guinness and a Plain Filet poetry by Chloe Stricklin
I see my face through the dark of his glass:
a glow struggling to contain itself.
He tells a story while my hands shake, he tells
me how my hands shake.
I tell him his eyes match his shirt—
a truth that exists only for a moment.
I stick my finger in his glass
just to taste the foam.
He tells me to try it, but I press
my ribs against the table, arms retreating.
I am still reflected in that glass, now
hands steady, watching
the wane of blue-grey around black irises.
Two plates are set down, a match is struck,
and wax melts between us.
He lifts the steak knife level with my raw-eyed stare.
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