If You See Her


by Marisa Crane

Author’s Note: Read this as if you are breathless from the best fuck you’ve ever had.

If you see her tell her I still have her purple dildo on my nightstand next to my hair ties & Tums & cigarettes & if you see her tell her it’s not as big as we once thought not as powerful as we liked to think back when we used to store our dreams in its veiny shaft

after all you can do that sort of thing when you need to forget yourself long enough to believe in miracles the kind that happen without the assistance of catheters & sperm washing & fertility drugs

& if you see her tell her I still think about her body moving on top of mine like liquid fire the feel of her hand around my throat as she ordered me to come & if you see her tell her that her eyes still remind me of the light-trapped icicles that line my roof                 they’d stay through spring & summer if they could & I never

told her this but I always imagined our baby would have those same persistent

eyes but with my long eyelashes

the ones she used to call magic carpets whenever the sun hit them right

& if you see her tell her I always loved those post-orgasm moments when our breathing

would fall into step & she would whisper Do you think it worked this time? & I thought

if I said Yes that I could speak our creation into existence like an incantation & if you see her tell her I still take a flask of rum to the park every Sunday & make myself dizzy sliding down the spiral slide until it gets dark because I like to pretend that it’s our DNA swirling together in a perfect coil & if you see her tell her after all this time I still expect her to be there when I get home

sitting on the edge of the tub

hunched over a pregnancy test

& smiling down at her own blue eyes,

my long lashes reaching out to greet her.


About the Author:

Marisa Crane is a lesbian writer and intersectional feminist. Marisa writes fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry.

Image by huppypie via Flickr (cc)