An ode to falling in love with your friends

by Isabel Ryan ‘21

Coats slip off &

we expose weary bodies, 

the same ones we show Lovers. You

reveal the stories laced in tattoos 

that lie underneath holey 

ringer tees, or remain 

tucked behind the belt loop: inky 

angels on hip bone, 

Roman numerals, lyrics in 

your mother’s handwriting. 

When one of us comes back

from the kitchen with a fistful 

of spoons—none that match,

an eclectic family 

of plastic and metal—

each person is paid  

a mound of honey, 

so much, that

words aren’t currency. 

Lit by the light of lavender 

candles and schemes 

of life in New York, 

we play a card game in which both 

the last person to touch their nose

or who has the warmest smile by vote 

are to take a sip from whatever 

sloshes in her cup. 

In this circle of giving 

and receiving, my cheeks are 

at the temperature

amber loses its hold like lava:

candied butterflies, jewel 

beetles fossilized, ferns 

trickle onto tongue  

until the jar sits empty. 

Follow the rules of 

the game: fall in love 

with the person to your left.

Leave a mitten in the car 

of the person across from you.

Make her a mixtape and hope 

she listens for your hurting voice. 

Admit how you’ve been feeling, 

or draw four.