For the Walk from Jackson Ward to Oregon Hill Allie Hoback
You stole a skateboard on your way to me
the night you came over wasted: the tail end
of a bender though we’d never call it that.
You must’ve cruised down the hill: top
of the Cherry & Albemarle intersection—
sweet wind on drunk cheeks,
& slight drips out the corners
of your eyes from brisk & memory.
All I know is—whatever you hit—
you showed up at my door with a bloody forearm,
then sat on the edge of my bathtub while I kneeled
& poured the peroxide down your arm
we watched it bubble & fizz & turn to pink drips
down the drain & you pressed your forehead into mine,
dried sweat to lotioned skin, & whispered thank you
for taking care of me & I nodded & took you to bed.
In the morning we laughed at how hungover
you were & laughed more when you asked:
when did you get a skateboard?