Kara Lewis
Love, Too, Is a Kind of Imposter Syndrome
like when I worked at the coffee shop and I’d take slow steps and watch
the liquid slosh, a tide of sleepy-eyed violence teetering
over the white saucer. I’d think, I cannot hold all of this
without toppling. Once, a man asked for soy milk and only after
he walked out did I realize I’d stirred in 2 percent. That night in my dreams
he clutched his throat and seized.
He stared at me with saucer-eyes
and said, It’s all your fault. He said, It’s the simplest things--
milk, a song, a kiss— that kill us.
Sometimes, I’m afraid you will become allergic to me,
that I’ve given you too much. Or, maybe,
the allergies are seasonal, waiting
to activate some Saturday in spring, when we’re looking at geese,
thinking, You could feed any creature your stale crusts
and they’d follow you forever. How many times have I squawked
after someone? But you keep breathing
like the coffeemaker at 2 a.m. dreaming of dawn. The first time
we slept in the same bed together, I breathed
completely. Not like when I hold it in and then explode
or like when I try to match my sighs to the rise
and fall of another naked chest. When you said, I love you, I couldn’t
say it back — I just pictured dozens of porcelain mugs crashing--
so, instead, I told you, I finally stopped running
out of air. When I bring you coffee in bed, I spill it
into your mouth, asking, Are you sure
you still want to be woken?
the liquid slosh, a tide of sleepy-eyed violence teetering
over the white saucer. I’d think, I cannot hold all of this
without toppling. Once, a man asked for soy milk and only after
he walked out did I realize I’d stirred in 2 percent. That night in my dreams
he clutched his throat and seized.
He stared at me with saucer-eyes
and said, It’s all your fault. He said, It’s the simplest things--
milk, a song, a kiss— that kill us.
Sometimes, I’m afraid you will become allergic to me,
that I’ve given you too much. Or, maybe,
the allergies are seasonal, waiting
to activate some Saturday in spring, when we’re looking at geese,
thinking, You could feed any creature your stale crusts
and they’d follow you forever. How many times have I squawked
after someone? But you keep breathing
like the coffeemaker at 2 a.m. dreaming of dawn. The first time
we slept in the same bed together, I breathed
completely. Not like when I hold it in and then explode
or like when I try to match my sighs to the rise
and fall of another naked chest. When you said, I love you, I couldn’t
say it back — I just pictured dozens of porcelain mugs crashing--
so, instead, I told you, I finally stopped running
out of air. When I bring you coffee in bed, I spill it
into your mouth, asking, Are you sure
you still want to be woken?
Biography
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Kara Lewis is a poet, writer, and editor who lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Her poems have appeared in Sprung Formal, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Plainsongs Poetry Magazine, and Number One Magazine. She is also a contributor to the Read Poetry blog and has received the John Mark Eberhart Memorial Award for a collection of poetry. In addition, she has published her journalism, fiction, and personal essays. When she's not writing, she can be found hanging out in bookstores, eating tacos, and advocating for reproductive rights. You can follow her on Twitter @kararaywrites.
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