Poem by Elisa Gabbert in Shampoo Issue 27

Last night I dreamt about last night,
with a few differences: we were dancing,

but not at a bar, at a bake sale,
and one of the Young Republicans

played “Pictures of You” on a boom box,
and we laced our fingers together,

breathing in the angel food vapors.
We stepped outside to share a cigarette,

to trace hearts and our initials
on a dusty van. Then we went for drinks

but in the dream they were milkshakes,
the thickest, most never-ending shakes

that made my tongue stick to my teeth
when I wanted to tell you something.

The ride back was exactly the same,
when the moon came blaring through

the windshield, and you said I can’t quit
because they fired me, and kissed me,

missing my mouth. Someone honked
outside, and I woke up alone,

but you had left a map of France
at my bedside, so the first thing I saw

was the colored patches, the geography
of everything that happens.