Two Poems by Charlotte Covey

snapshot (nashville)

she is next to me, and she is floating
the way i want to be, but instead i am
here, slipping every sip 
down my throat, unfeeling.
she is stumbling, and the world is
going too fast, but i can’t leave her, 
and he’s buying me another drink,
and he’s lighting me
another cigarette, and she is giggling, almost passed
out on the bar stool, while his hand is climbing
my skirt, while he’s making eyes at me,
whispering so close, i wish i’d met you
first. i am imagining sneaking
my tongue behind his ear while she’s puking 
in the bathroom, his hands snaking through my hair and other
parts, and i am swallowing
every drop of every drink he’s buying 
us, since she’s collapsed in her seat, retching
with a dry mouth, and he’s slurring, just one 
more, and i do, losing count while looking 
at the red in his eyes, or maybe it’s a reflection
of mine, and she’s clinging to my arm, and the bar 
is blurring, and he’s watching me leave, and i’m feeling
his tongue where it never touched me, and then i can’t
remember his name. 

snapshot (atlanta)

there’s a blue-lit moon and scotch
on breath. a liquor lip, blackout
mouth. i’ve got three days to make
you crave, to drink till we forget
those fingers spidering thighs, eyes
on skyline. i’ve got a child 
in my head, she’s in the city, 
finding every excuse to stay, to call
this home. i bore a red lip, scratched
back with plastic nails. rolled
eyes heavied by sangria and sex. 
i’ve been finding you in the water,
in the lights seen from the balcony—
i wrote you a love poem, ripped it 
and left with the westbound wind.


Charlotte is from St. Mary’s County, Maryland. She currently lives in St. Louis, and she earned her MFA in Poetry from the University of Missouri -St. Louis in Spring 2018. She has poetry published or forthcoming in journals such as The Normal School, Salamander Review, and CALYX Journal, among others.

Image Credit: “downtown panoramic” by Drew Baker
Read by Charlotte Covey

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