Tonight, after midnight
we are both outside, waiting
for the meteor shower that neither
of us can see.

On the phone
in the dark, in different
cities, we tell
the stories of each day–
a short walk across
the small bridge and
through the empty
parking lot, an hour
of writing and deleting lines
about your body, the bitter
smell of a downtown
coffee house, a longer walk
home, a glimpse
of you, but
it wasn’t you
crossing the street–

I’m sitting next to you
I say into the phone, and we are both
stretching and looking. I see you,
you say. Then we are both
quiet and searching, letting
our eyes adjust to the dark, breathing
and sighing together
waiting for something
to streak across the sky.

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HEATHER BARTLETT received her MFA in Poetry from Hunter College. Her poems have appeared in RealPoetik, California Quarterly, Conte, Melusine, The Evening Street Review, Third Wednesday, and others. Her chapbook, Bleeding Yellow Light, was published by From Yes Press in 2009. Before settling into teaching, Heather has worked as a copy clerk at The New York Post, as a publishing assistant for small press that publishes French literary translations, at an engineering firm, and at a window store. She is also an Associate Scottish Highland Dance teacher. Currently, she teaches writing and literature at Ithaca College and SUNY Cortland in upstate New York, and is Assistant Editor at Split Oak Press. She writes, grades papers, and longs for New York City from her small apartment in Ithaca, New York.

One response to “Perseid Meteor Shower”

  1. Hank cherry says:

    Waiting for something to streak across the sky. Excellent. I like the whole thing but that really represents the whole of the poem and wow, I like it.

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