prayer to the last time you walked out on me in a bar


Yes, Memory,
I am easy to leave.
Forgettable, dun-colored,

small. Remnant

of what we found in the ditch
inside discarded ice chests,
supplicant of your

buyer's remorse. we are twins
in the womb, perpetually we hug

because of constraint.

We are the highway-
-markers, virginity in orbit,
the hundred billion years

before the sun was ever warm enough
for life. You never leave,
but when I ask you to stay my mouth

is cotton, my mouth is caught
on the chipped lip of a bad pint glass.
Say goodbye, first.

the burned neck,

the small, small scar.

Kenzie Allen is a poet, editor, designer, and literary activist. She recently completed a Zell Postgraduate Fellowship in Poetry at the University of Michigan's Helen Zell Writers' Program ('14) where she was the recipient of Hopwood Awards in poetry and non-fiction. She is the recipient of the 2014 Littoral Press Poetry Prize, a 2013 Emerging Writers Fellowship to Aspen Summer Words from the Aspen Writers' Foundation, and a Zell residency fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center.  Poem originally published in Rabbit & Rose.