Jennifer Corob

Itís a college party, 10 p.m.

Iím the one out back, with my purse

under my arm, fidgeting with curls,

while the guys of the house, shouting,

flip quarters on the old wooden table.

I give a bewildered, squeamish look

at their eager mention of beer bong.

Iím the one apart from conversation,

warming a sticky white sugar puff

in the smoking embers with one hand

and text messaging with the other—

the puff blackening under blue-tinged light,

but I like the burnt flakes, the inner cream.

I would have you sooner if I could,

reads the box screen in my palm.

I would go anywhere, anywhere,

if he were there, would have me.

I am only here to try to forget

the suffocating soundlessness

of roommates gone for days.

I alone notice the boy-like man

who said he wouldnít play for us,

but, when nobody seems to look,

moans a few lines of hushed song,

strums a few strings, eyes closed.

I canít tell what his song means;

the rumbling chatter erases him.

When he walks off into the bushes

thinking we donít care to hear,

Iíve lost the voice to call, Stay.

Jennifer Corob is an aspiring writer who graduated from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo in June of 2007 with a B.A. in English and a creative emphasis in poetry. In her spare time, she enjoys reading Shakespeare and watching classic movies. She has lived in Santa Maria, California for most of her life with her mother, father and sister, and enjoys cooking family meals.

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