Poetry by Chelsea Baumgarten

The Last Time

It isn’t so much what you said
that I remember, but the coffee
drying in the pit of your spoon.
My banana cream pie caving

in on itself. The burned-out
busboy stacking dirty dishes
as if he were slamming dozens
of doors. The broken dessert

case rotating behind you:
it would catch, hesitate
in the same place
before twisting away.

Would it have stopped
if I’d tried to reach inside,
or would it have continued
to turn without me?

Riverside Park, Springtime

I know you don’t
love me, but

the crabapple
trees are blushing

like debutantes.
Let’s lie

together on wet
petals. Their big

pink dresses
will sway for us.

Chelsea Baumgarten holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Illinois at Chicago. Her writing has appeared in Electric Literature and the Nabokov Online Journal. Originally from Michigan, Chelsea currently lives in Manhattan. 

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