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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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You photographed my graduation party—my last

party before the one when you knew you loved me.


Your favorite photo is the one with Stacy’s feet.

Years later, you write in a poem how she came on to you


just after we got back together—before she knew.

I say if you were to make love to anyone else, she—


someone I love—would be the easiest choice on me.

In another photograph of that night, the top


of my buzzed head peeks over the frame, Stacy’s palm

rubbing against the prickle, the boys on my folded bed


in the background. I can’t remember catching you snapping

the shutter. I didn’t see you outside the frame with me.

                                                                              —Sari Krosinsky

The night we met


The soft blue light haloed

you, casting all else in black.

You spoke first as I squeezed past

your table, saying you liked

my poem—Lady, I think, but you

remember Roller Coasters and

My Granddad is So Cool, and Lady

I couldn’t have written for months

—it was the summer of 2001, and

we weren’t supposed to hate France

or liberty yet. I said I liked yours, too—

Slammer, I think. You don’t remember.


I must have been femme—summer

is my girly season—but from my butch

companion and my poem to a girl

—really a boy I called a girl—

you supposed I was queer—true, but you

didn’t account for the genital-neutral variety.


I retreated to the bathroom, then back

to my black corner—or as you remember,

my table in a bright café. I bet we both

don’t remember knowing it was the night

I met my husband—you met your wife.


                                           —Sari Krosinsky