After the Auction, I Bid You Good-Bye

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

You elbow me with your corduroy jacket

when a box chock-full of antique marbles comes up.

I can’t hear your whispers above the auctioneer’s racket.

The clipped speech of the auctioneer cracked

me up when you impersonated him in bed. Like a wild, thick mop

I soak up every copper smell from your corduroy jacket.

In two days, I will drive you to the airport, packed

with other couples pressed tightly at the top

of the escalator. Lines sear my cheek from your corduroy jacket

when we hug—then a quick kiss good-bye tacked

on at the end. I’ll finger the rim on the paper coffee cup

you leave in my car. When I hear your name I can’t forget

how your long torso pressed against my bare back,

bluish in this early light. Your fingers shot into me, popped

my spine into a wicked arch. There is no lack

of how it haunts me still—what I bid—lost, sacked

and wrapped for other girls. I should have looked up

to see who else was bidding, but I studied the folds in your jacket.

My limit is spent, loud and certain as the auctioneer’s racket.