Rachel Becker
Flirting in 23B
Oh there were unsuitable men even
before your body became alien
& ecstatic with children,
a bread basket, doughy homily
but now you are thirty something
(married, suitably)
& you haven’t flown alone
since your kids were born,
& yet here you are,
in 23B on a flight to DC,
sipping gin & remembering
how to flirt.
Turns out it’s muscle memory.
Turns out there’s a heat wave
between your seats. Your knees touch.
It’s economy, after all.
You swipe your phone
& show him your kids,
their gummy grins & say their names,
each sounding like a balloon
in your mouth, a hollow brag.
You don’t say how your children siphon sleep
from your chest, drain both breasts,
and leave you a hollow husk.
You leave out the utter indignity
of the plugged duct
and say nothing of the nights
on croup or puke watch,
your heart beating hard against its hangar
while sleep does not come.
23A’s green eyes grin,
glinting in the window-seat sun,
but you bite your tongue
until it bleeds.
Rachel Becker teaches high school English and Creative Writing in Newton, MA. Her poems most recently appear or are forthcoming in Barely South Review, Ghost City Review, Rappahannock Review, Portland Review, The Shore, Tusculum Review, and RHINO. She lives in Boston. Find her @ Rachel-Becker.com.