So yes,
cheetah-print carpet
did whine something
sensual as I pressed
into it,
coaxing me further
upstairs because
Is this what everyone
else knew about?
Hotels,
spaces,
glamorous enough
for one’s own reinvention?
because who really belongs
here but the sharpened spiders
crawling along the roof
we peek over,
fairy lights cutting
their silhouette?
Later, in a ballroom cast
in soft red and jazz,
you’ll heave your foot
onto my thigh,
shoelaces spilling
over the edge,
and I’ll wonder
if the spiked smoothie
you insisted tasted like paint
undid them,
maybe the pool water
or the pearls —
I kneel to tie
bunny ears
of your laces.
Your fingertips brush
my head in thanks,
and out of all
resounding bass lines, long
dresses,
clinking glasses,
this undoes me
the most.
— JADEN GOLDFAIN
Jaden Goldfain, a poet from Fort Collins, Colorado, and based in San Diego, Calif., is currently pursuing her M.A. in Writing from PLNU. Her work has appeared in Gastropoda and Rough Diamond Poetry Journal, among others. She loves Jesus, her friends, and people who either don’t exist or don’t know she exists.