Kristen Lindquist

The last time we spoke

you called to make amends. Back then you didn’t have a phone, but you called me from pay phones all over the city. You called me all the time. I was at your mercy. You called me one night just before midnight to tell me, “So I’m talking to Kim about the divorce papers on the phone outside 7-11 tonight, and I’m wearing my Tigger t-shirt, and this girl walks by and says, ‘Hey, I like Tigger too,’ and flips up her skirt to show me a Tigger tattoo on her thigh. I followed her home just to find out where she got it.”

cigarette break
the long story
that goes with the scar

Another time, you called me from a bar on karaoke night. You told me, “There’s a little girl here in a princess dress, with princess slippers on. You should see this! She has a great voice.” I can hear the thump of music in the background, loud laughter. You asked, “Is your husband home?” You said, “I’m a patient man.”

longest night
a lighter's snap and spark
in a dark doorway

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About the Author

Kristen Lindquist is a poet, writer, and naturalist in Camden, Maine. She has published two collections of poetry and maintains a daily haiku blog at kristenlindquist.com/blog.