You sang oldies to me on the way home,
belting them out, one hand on the wheel,
one on my knee, before you
dropped me home barely able to kiss,
more mouth-to-mouth laughter.
My smile was still sore from being
worn out all evening with you,
stretched by giggles,
opened by chortles like
two kids meeting, befriending for
life on the monkey bars.
We never did go to a real bar.
You took me straight to your
friends’ shared valley bungalow
in the bonfire-smelling night and
I spun around, wrestled with
fluffy-tailed Aries in the grass yard.
Warm tears peeked out as
I rolled over on my back,
said to you and the music-laced sky:
“The birds sing at night here!
The birds, they still sing at night!
Listen! Do you hear it? Listen.”
You took my green and brown
speckled hand, held it and squeezed
the earthy remnants between us.
You placed your arm around me
as your friends introduced themselves,
embraced tightly by four strangers,
eight arms welcoming me home,
your support lightly on my back.
You could have taken me to another hip bar.
I could have worn high heels, a short skirt, but—
We played in dirty sneakers and drifted
around, singing, dancing, listening in
awe of the birds that sing at night.
Alisha Grace Scott received her B.S. degree from Virginia Tech in psychology, and completed her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. She has had her fiction and poetry published in Silhouette, Rose Red Review, Syzygy Poetry Journal, Enclave, San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, and was recently featured in the Southern California poetry anthology, Spectrum. Alisha currently resides in Los Angeles and is usually busy opening or closing browser tabs in her mind. If you see her wandering the city staring into space and furrowing her brows, shhh, she’s working.