Wednesday, October 5, 2011


I hate the boyfriends
of my ex-girlfriends—
men blissfully unaware
of all the rogue teeth
and dry lips I’ve suffered
to sculpt their women
into prodigious dick suckers—
who believe the skills
at their waists are God’s
gift, so they send thanks out
to the wrong muchacho. I believe I deserve

a cheery Christmas card for the holidays
and balloons on my birthday,
at least—a candy gram with clever, vulgar puns
for every publication I make. And tell me
this isn’t poetic if you are a scraper
or have been scraped, and I will tell you kindly
you are pretentious and I do not like you.

But that’s presumptuous. Forgive me,
I am insecure and alone and there are people
out there who loved me enough—
just enough.  What I mean to say is
I feel cliché like a half-empty glass,
like I’m missing the essential neurons that fire
contentment across synapses. So I chase girls

away to other laps because they don’t understand
how Larkin uses high windows as a metaphor
for redemption and hopelessness and how
those two are inextricably linked.
One reason is all we ever need

to leave. I think sometimes
there is too much confusion in this world
for poetry to perplex. I want to tell it
to you straight, all of it—
about the loving and the leaving—
but sometimes rather than words
comes the thought of high windows.

And then I can’t say it better
than a half-empty glass. 

Today, I want all of them

About T.J. Sandella:
T.J. Sandella is originally from Ashtabula, Ohio, but currently resides in Milledgeville, Georgia, where he shares a happy home with his dog, Rufio. He is a second year poetry student in Georgia College and State's MFA program. The winner of the Academy of American Poet's University Prize, TJ has had poems published in Foliate Oak Review, among others.

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