Contributor: Jennifer A. Hudson

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For J.B.

A jet cuts the sky in half and my thoughts travel back to the 18 hours that carried me across the Pacific to Melbourne,

how my stomach tumbled as I exited the jet bridge after landing

how my eyes teared at the sight of you seated on one of the benches near the arrival gate

how your graceful neck elongated and made a slow twist in my direction

I remember our combined exclamation chorus, the shrill octave of shared breathlessness,

how in perfect synchronicity our arms became robes that fit snug around each other

how your boyfriend exclaimed “You’d think something bad happened!” as our bodies swayed to the rhythms of our sobs

how your kaleidoscope eyes searched within my clear ones for some kind of illumination I was unwilling to offer.

I remember turning my focus to the luggage that twirled on the carousel, though my bags had already arrived,

how I couldn’t think of what to say from the back seat of your hatchback and stared at the drooping crescents of eucalyptus leaves

how you walked in on me changing my clothes and I hid myself from your view

how I watched your hand draw a blade through lush kiwis and crisp fuji apples,
and I nearly dropped the bowl you offered me.

I remember the freezing nights when my warm-wept tears chilled on my cheek, while he kept you warm in your room across the hall,

how you sat on one end of the couch painting while I sat on the other reading, neither of us uttering a word

how you looked like you didn’t know what to say, except for whispering “Bite me!” when I offered to buy your lunch

how, while you huddled over the toilet vomiting vodka and VB, I stifled sobs in between the unsatisfying drags of my Marlboro.


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Writer. Poet. Essayist. Madwoman.