I’m walking down a long, haunted country road in Italy.
It made me think about how it feels when we fuck,
and I thought it was quite romantic.
Like the time you slipped yourself inside me
while I was sleeping,
or the time you pulled out clumps of my hair
and they scattered like ghosts across the marble floor.
Or the night you bought me sunflowers
on First Avenue and left bruises on my arms
like little planets you said
it was because I didn’t get enough iron. Or the weekend you took me to Hudson while your wife was in Chinait was so romantic when you brought me back
li hing mui
from Hawaiiand saidyou wanted me to have your children
wouldn’t they be adorable? you said and I started to cry.
Or the morning your palm kissed my cheek
in that downtown hotel
my face red in the mirror
as I stole miniature bottles of lotionand soapas souvenirs
to remind myselfthat illusion
could dissolve a body into nothing.
I got into the car and thought of
the time we listened to jazz at The Carlyle
and you put your hand on my leg
your eyes wet pools of blue you could be
so tender sometimes.
Jenna Putnam is a writer, poet, and visual artist born on Maui and living in Southern California. Her work has been featured in Autre, Hero, The Sun, The New York Times, Hobart Journal, and others. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a poetry chapbook, as well as an ancestry project based on her great-grandmother Grace Storey Putnam’s unpublished memoir, Northern Lights.
Photography by: Jenna Putnam