Alice de Hubp

i love you so much i can’t breathe.
i count the days till new york. i bathe
my body with snow. i
marvel at old buildings, lily-white
and imponent, respectable, eminent.
i buy red-white-and-blue shirts.
i take the subway, face bright and lovely.
i hook ‘em at the tower. i buy more baseball caps. i wear less eyeshadow.
i wear my first oversized shirt, so soft and shapeless.
i marry the idea of a sorority. my child will be
a fraternity legacy. i draw up a pinterest board. i
fall in love with a suburb.
i scream at my dumb parents for speaking with an accent. they’ll never love me if you talk like that.
i am alone on thanksgiving week.

you love me so much i can’t breathe.
you count the days till my expiration. you bathe
in the bodies of mine. you
marvel at old congresses, lily-white
and cruel, respectable, eminent.
you paint red-white-and blue scenes.
you cut off the bus, legs battered and bloody.
you hook me in with the tower. you buy more of me. you wear less of me.
you choke me in my oversized shirt, the shame of being shapeful.
you get me hooked on the idea of a paper. my child will be
an anchor baby. you draw up a pin-up timeline. you
sweep up my culture to make room for a suburb.
you scream at my dumb parents for speaking with an accent. you’ll never love me if we talk like that.
i will be home by thanksgiving week.

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