My Favorite Part Was the Poetry

by Sofia Ascorbe

I hurriedly swing open the passenger door to your
Dark green Toyota 4Runner, cars whipping past us
In the rain

You, always illegally pulled over on Wisconsin Avenue
Bright eyes and toothy smile
All of O’Hara’s kangaroos, sequins, and chocolate sodas
As you proclaim that I’m going to love
This playlist for the ride home
A bright yellow post-it falls
Out of my purse as I adjust the seat belt
To be read when we whisper to each other in the dark, a holy ritual
For now, it lies on your car floor, has a salad dressing stain on it
Says: “lunch, amazing. New dressing: garlic. maple. Will make for us next week.”
For now, we drive off and sing at the top of our lungs

Come, reach your hand down the bottom of my purse
Feel for the crumpled little paper edges littered across its body
Unfold each poem from an ordinary life

“Challenge accepted: I only spent $22 on groceries today.”
“Deportation proceedings and (no) due process?! Must discuss.”
“Our song on the radio! 88.9 on my way to work. p.s. This is a sign we need to watch True Stories again.”
“You’re going to kill it tonight--you can and you will.”
“We can and we will--I love it. Let’s use that more often.”
“Done. We’ll use it more often, together.”
“And for the record, I’m madly in love with you.”
“I miss you. Sorry. And thank you.”
“And thank you.”

Oh, my love
To recall every grace extended to each other
Over the years would be a Sisyphean task
For now, it is enough that Mary Oliver’s thank yous
should appear somewhere

It is quiet now, except for the gentle drizzle
Of leftover rain as it rolls down our window
Taps onto the sill
I match my voice to its low volume

As I read Neruda’s love sonnet to you
Once in English
And then again, slower, in his native tongue
The way you like
…como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras
The words richer, taking shape now in the dark
As I slow down my pace and go deep
Roll my tongue through each letter
Careful to glide over and through and in between
Each soft edge and delicate curve
The sound sweet, thick like
Caramel absorbed into a rum cake
Carefully drips out into
The sponge, seizes then expands again
Adjusts to its new volume
Some drips down the side still
My tongue always eager to catch

And in this moment
I’d abandon every power structure
To continue this sacred practice of
Reading poetry to you

A robin mumbles with laughter outside
Your head turns to follow the sound
Look at how ordinary we are
Our lives are not shaped by perfect words
But built brick by mud-stained brick
By hands unsteady and felt

Night falls, and you know that I am leaving you
The poem ends
You ask me to hold you

I reach over and gently cup the side of your face
My hand trembles but then I remember
The dressing-stained post-it
And Joyce’s words flow through me and
Yes I said yes I will yes

Sofia Ascorbe grew up in many places and cultures due to her Latine-military upbringing. She was born under the warm Georgia sun, fell asleep to the same lullaby of Puerto Rican coquí frogs that her dad did, recited her ABCs in the suburbs of Washington D.C., and largely grew up chasing the best croquetas de jamon in Miami, Florida in between visits to her mom’s family in Panama. Proudly Wisconsin educated, she has since fallen in love with the state, her chosen and loving home for more than a decade. She has a legal background in advocating for human rights and housing justice, and is an avid dancer, trekker, and storyteller.