Simone parker

Alley Truth

You apologize for the party. I get
your meaning: this isn’t for me. I am not

here. I can’t keep up. My horizon
migraine rising, immobile in arm-waving 

haze. The one figure not glittered, the one 
White Claw can uncrushed. 3 drinks 

behind the crowd. I can’t keep up. Bad 

remix squeezes my brain, wringing out 
the alcohol and blood. My skin looks wrong 

in the lights. My fit unchecked. Always 
an anti-haul, always steps outside the trend 

cycle. There’s a rhythm here I cannot feel, 

a ritual I haven’t learned. I’ll stumble through 

the incantation, summon sudden storms 
from my mistakes. I wasn’t here when 
you learned to love country music. I can’t

keep up. Slam myself against the brick. Let

me in. I am not here. It’s just me and the blood 

moon alone in the alley. Me and the party alone 
in the garage. I can’t keep 

up. Can I ever belong here? Shooting seltzer spirits, 
spitting citrus slices? The mormon church salutes 

across the alley, my car horn exit looming. Nicollet 
Avenue empties herself. She knows what I would 

give up. I can’t keep up. You belong to this place. I

am not even here. I didn’t help you clean. I 
didn’t make the mess. Nothing here belongs

to me. No strings, no fingerprints. My scuffed
shoes and I lay in the grass next to the mormon

church with the blood moon and the concrete
cracks. I gave you gas once, for your motorcycle
 
but I can’t keep up.

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Simone Parker is a poet and collage artist. She is the author of missing e. (Fernwood Press, 2025), a collection of cut up poetry from Tumblr. Her work has appeared in wildscape, Remington Review, The Talking Stick, and bitter melon review, among others. She lives in Minneapolis. Find her on Instagram @singedfingers or online at simoneparkerpoet.com.