POETRY: Trench Coat Smile; Or, First Date after a Pandemic Break-up / Hadas Goshen
Hadas Goshen has been a contributor to The Racket Reading Series and The Racket Journal (as recently as Issue Sixty-Six) since our earliest days. Her newest piece for us–”Trench Coat Smile; Or, First Date after a Pandemic Break-up–is somehow funny and sad and even a little bit sexy. Goshen did us the favor of recording the piece as well.
Trench Coat Smile;
Or, First Date after a Pandemic Break-up
by Hadas Goshen
I wait for you, by the books,
Tom Petty and Fleetwood Mac watch me,
Pacing nervously. You walk up,
Flash me your smile with a trench coat reveal,
Pull the mask from your face, nudity
Of cheeks and chin startling,
Your perfect jaw, destined to stiffen
Toward me someday, but not today.
Tonight I’m brave. Pull my mask off, too.
Flash you this face, this missing puzzle piece.
Funny what we’ve learned to hide,
These past few years, and who would have thought
We’d meet at Amoeba records, Haight Street
Where at sixteen I’d skip school to smoke pot in
Parking lots, mill these aisles, the musk of
So many songs served to so many ears,
Endless chords by which to dance and die.
But back then, death just meant a lot more birthday cakes.
I sliced each year, now one away from thirty-six.
Still a sucker for a head shop, thrift store, forever
Chasing the perfect sneaker. Window shopping
Black leather jackets peacocked across boy’s shoulders.
How they’d check reflections in glass, to see if us girls looked back.
You’re not vain like that. I think?
I don’t really know you. But your sweater’s soft
You smell good. And you’re laughing at my jokes.
Though I’d give them a six, somehow, the way you look at me
My flabby repartee seems to be ok. I lean across the table towards you too.
How your thoughts go fast, aerodynamic like stones
Skipped across lakes I’d like to skinny dip in.
Sixteen might be the last time I did that sort of thing
Because I’m scared of more things now.
Wrapped in thicker sweaters, winter’s armor,
It’s December, and trenchcoat season after all.
But as you talk, something shoots up between woolen toes,
Some green thing resisting frost.
Could be the wine in my belly, tender little
Ember of impossibility but I’ll sip again. Why not?
If only to remember the teenage sulk
Of Saturdays, because-I-can’t-stop-thinking-about-when
You-put-your-hands-down-my-shirt-so-I’m-snapping-at-my-mom
Sort of teenage Saturday.
Ah San Francisco, you hold me like a bridge,
Suspended between cynic and sixteen,
Can’t decide which. Both feet hold firm
Waiting for a tug. So which way
Are you walking, Juice? Wanna talk
Lyrics? Cds I bought with my babysitting jobs?
Leather backpack bouncing against my back, I rush ahead,
And time travel back. Out of breath, nose red
Against the bay. I’m awkward again, that much is clear.
And isn’t that the best kind of alive, at our age?
Hey. I said wait up.
Which way are you walking, green eyes?
You wanna walk me home?
Hadas Goshen is a writer living in San Francisco.
