it wasn't something you would ever notice
dipping red nitrile-covered hands into
the tray, caustic tendrils of vapor
the copper plate swimming in light blue
image biting deeper with every minute
him standing there with her, but
not just regular standing there
his arm around her shoulders.
his arm around her shoulders
perhaps her grandmother died
or her rent was late--facing eviction
these were the only acceptable reasons
why he should be standing
his arm around her
his cheek to her cheek
like jenna wasn't even there.
so now she was here.
smoking on the balcony
where countless balcony smokers had stood before
where she could count on something
besides the smell
count on the acid to bite the plate
chlorine rising into her nostrils
the press to roll the paper flat
ink smelling of linseed
pass by pass, crushing out the image
of the three of them
micron by micron.
Jeez, I might be the only person I can think of who would actually write a poem about printmaking. What a nerd.