Spring Formal

Rosalie Moffett
Facebook icon Share via Facebook Twitter icon Share via Twitter

The cigarette vending machine can tell
I’m not old enough. It scans my skin and bones,

calculates, refuses to vend. No machine
accepts my invitation to prom. Their default

screen flashes help yourself and I allow myself
the clunk of one orange Crush, each sip

he crushes me, he crushes me not—a small difference
like the one between getting stoned and stoning. Confusing verbs

like lay, lie, laid—getting and not doing is vending
machine sex logic. It’s April and it snows

all over the plum blossoms. Everywhere
girls put on jewelry and corsages.

Some of the blowsy red tulips
have black dusted throats.

More Reads

Two Jokes Walk Into a Bar

Sabrina Orah Mark

News From the Muse

Frederick Seidel

Wall Street

Mary Jo Bang