This Thing, Love: A Hole by Julene Tripp Weaver at

This Thing, Love: A Hole

This Thing, Love: A Hole

written by: Julene Tripp Weaver


There was this thing         that happened
we fell                 into a hole,         tripped over ourselves
the fall sweet,                a ball of yarn         we tangled
in a tango,         candy land         ballroom,
hollowed out         coffee mugs,        a drought, 
in this search         for a slick-soled-shoe dance
that ended in bed   the clothes                we took off.
We came up         against   unexplored expectation
colossal         let down         we flailed each time.

Back then         it was a thing         to move
inside out,         flip each other         on sidewalks, 
corner fights         on concrete,   smoke lingering 
off our cigarettes, harsh        light         
in a dim hotel                 night after night
the candid         rape of inlaid                 carpeting. 
What did you         say?                  What did it
mean?                It was yesterday         before age settled 
into rounded shoulders         pushed us down.

To rise         one must sink                 into a sewer
half         extended         from a manhole cover,
there is no        crank        here,
only the label         we give ourselves:    dogs 
in heat,    not a good plan,        to find love         
or feel                 our toes.

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