In college I cut my hair

boy short, you noticed 

and saw value

in inadvisable decisions. 

At night we would center

ourselves on a half mattress, 

meant for a sofa bed,

on the floor. 

Your mother bought

us a new bed. Handmade

beautiful honey pine. A year later

the soft wooden slats began

to buckle, one by one. 

We held up the mattress

with stacks of books. 

Our car stalled in a blizzard. 

In the middle of nowhere. 

This didn’t really happen. 

We left the car and decided

to find our way. Soon frostbite

set in. Parts started to numb

and fall off. We couldn’t go on. 

Years later we found each other

at a house party. 

The music was too loud 

so we went into a quiet room, 

to talk. The whole time 

we couldn’t get over

the fact that we were

at a party together. 

I still have the bed. 

Now attached to a metal frame

and painted white. 

The party is over. 

I wasn’t allowed to leave 

the premises. Your new wife 

razed the house with me 

still in it. The last thing 

I saw was you hopping

into the oncoming bulldozer 

in order to escape another blizzard. 

Megan Colgan lives and works in New Hampshire. She has two kids but no pets. She really wants a dog and hopes to make this a reality soon. Her work has been published in various literary journals. She has loved poetry for as long as she can remember. 

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