diana donovan
San Francisco
I told you about the snow, right?
How it never gets cold enough here
but you get used to its absence
like in college, I got used to you
walking other girls home
while I waited in your room
like you can get used to waking up
to the occasional earthquake—a shake, a rattle
that after a while you don’t even notice
like how I got used to you
not remembering my birthday
though I’ve never forgotten yours.
I miss you, I texted when I got here.
Is ‘miss’ the right word? you said
not even close.
Drift
That feeling you get in aisle seven
as you blink at your basket
eggs, bread crumbs, parsley, lemon
something you’re forgetting
cruelties you overheard
times you should have called the cops
or at least a neighbor
some days you want to drop everything
stand under an open sky
tilt your head back
lock your eyes on an airplane
or a flock of birds or a cloud
in the shape of a person
you might have loved once
or thought you could
before a car door slams
and you’re awash
in a shadowy ocean
the brushstroke of erasure
one long, silent goodbye.
Diana Donovan’s work has recently appeared in California Quarterly, Chestnut Review, Plainsongs, and Pithead Chapel. In 2021, she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. A graduate of Brown University, she lives in Northern California with her husband and daughter.