Hold by Andreas Fleps

Sitting at the bar of my favorite Mexican restaurant—
sipping on my 20-ounce frozen strawberry margarita—
I see an awkward hug across from me. It’s the first time 
they have met, so maybe it’s a Tinder date, or if they are 
classier, a Bumble date. Either way, the woman all 
dolled-up looks like a worm writhing in a palm. He held
her far too long and too tight, probably sniffed her hair,
and touched her lower waist at the end. Poor fucker, 
he doesn’t even know the date is over before it began. 
I shall call his penis “Glasses,” for he will not be seeing
any action tonight. I shall call his penis “Nemo,” for 
the little guy is probably hard to find. 

Anyway, I don’t enjoy being touched. I want fingerprints to 
drip off my skin. Don’t get too close to me—my sadness 
will dilute your joy. Love makes me flinch. Love bombs
me with guilt. Love shackles me inside my brain. I am the
clapping monkey with cymbals, running out of music.

The news is on, a harsh glow above the glistening bottles 
of tequila telling me how this person was shot here and 
this person drowned there and these people were slaughtered
because they sing to a different god, different nothingness. 
Fuck me. I take a shot. It burns, like how my mother looks at me
when I tell her to look away; you don’t want to see how this ends. 

Back to the date. He talks on and on. I shall call him “Treadmill,”
for his tongue can travel miles in one place. He touches her leg, 
and I hear her chair squeak slightly away—a simple but succinct—
“No.” He takes note. They finish their food and drinks, and she leaves
before him. He orders a shot before he departs, defeat painting his
face in loneliness. I order one too. Poor fucker, to be surrounded 
by fingers and not have one reaching for you.

He doesn’t realize yet how the world’s arms are not wide with 
welcome, even though all there is to welcome is more of itself.

He doesn’t realize America cannot hold anyone because
it has a Bible in one hand and gun in the other, and it will put
down the Bible when it wants to grab a woman. Or maybe he
does, considering he is wearing a black Grunt Style t-shirt. 

I take a shot. I shall call my lack “Here,” for it never goes away.
What else can I bring you except armfuls of myself trying
to slip away? How can I hold anyone or anything with my 
hands around my neck, tightening?

Poor fucker.

 Andreas Fleps is a 29-year-old poet based near Chicago. He studied theology and philosophy at Dominican University, and his debut collection of poems entitled, Well into the Night (via Energion Publications) was released at the end of 2020. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as High Shelf Press, Snapdragon, Allegory Ridge, Passengers Journal, and Waxing & Waning, among others. Battling Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder since the age of five, he translates teardrops.