Sam Frost
Points of Geological Interest
You point to the road sign with your fist
half clenched around your McMuffin
and I’m thankful for the miles you latched
to car tires, and McDonald’s breakfast
grease spread on my fingertips,
and the mountains beside us,
and the way bug guts squish as we pass
the middle-aged woman driving an RV
fit for a queen wearing white linens
or maybe a stained Old Navy 4th of July t-shirt.
I wonder if everyone knows
when they see us we are still learning
how to turn love into a verb,
and how to read different books
on the same couch, and lick lips,
and spread legs, and cry in the middle of sex.
I wonder where I stop and you begin
and if on days where my flesh turns hot
on your flesh, I will always think of how
I didn’t know I was looking for this,
a chest that can deflate in a good way,
a kind of knot that’s both undone and tied
to lungs that tingle with fresh air.
I’ve already forgotten which small town
was home to the point of geological interest
too vague for a real sign, something
that would say “I am here, I am here,”
because I am looking at you, sunglasses
turning the brim of your nose pink
and biscuit crumbs on your wrinkled shirt,
and I am thinking of all the people I never loved,
and the nights smoking weed on the balcony
with that guy who played drums
for a band I never checked out.
And I don’t really smoke weed anymore,
but I’m still not sure how to touch myself
in a way that feels like I’ve come
home at 2 a.m. and found leftover pasta salad
in the bowl behind the chopped celery,
and I’m not sure I’ve learned how to feel
anything in the right way.
On this two-lane road with you smiling,
and my feet on the window leaving toe marks,
and you skipping songs I don’t like,
I think love is easier than we make it.
half clenched around your McMuffin
and I’m thankful for the miles you latched
to car tires, and McDonald’s breakfast
grease spread on my fingertips,
and the mountains beside us,
and the way bug guts squish as we pass
the middle-aged woman driving an RV
fit for a queen wearing white linens
or maybe a stained Old Navy 4th of July t-shirt.
I wonder if everyone knows
when they see us we are still learning
how to turn love into a verb,
and how to read different books
on the same couch, and lick lips,
and spread legs, and cry in the middle of sex.
I wonder where I stop and you begin
and if on days where my flesh turns hot
on your flesh, I will always think of how
I didn’t know I was looking for this,
a chest that can deflate in a good way,
a kind of knot that’s both undone and tied
to lungs that tingle with fresh air.
I’ve already forgotten which small town
was home to the point of geological interest
too vague for a real sign, something
that would say “I am here, I am here,”
because I am looking at you, sunglasses
turning the brim of your nose pink
and biscuit crumbs on your wrinkled shirt,
and I am thinking of all the people I never loved,
and the nights smoking weed on the balcony
with that guy who played drums
for a band I never checked out.
And I don’t really smoke weed anymore,
but I’m still not sure how to touch myself
in a way that feels like I’ve come
home at 2 a.m. and found leftover pasta salad
in the bowl behind the chopped celery,
and I’m not sure I’ve learned how to feel
anything in the right way.
On this two-lane road with you smiling,
and my feet on the window leaving toe marks,
and you skipping songs I don’t like,
I think love is easier than we make it.
Biography
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Sam Frost (she/her) is a writer who spends too much time and money drinking kombucha and is always craving fast food breakfast. Find more work at C&P Quarterly, Ghost City Review, Floodlight Poetry, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @sammfrostt
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