I run into you at the local Mexican restaurant
years after we graduate, out with a large group
of friends. When you say my full name from across
the table, I feel a pang in my stomach, like we’re passing

in the hallway and I’m drawn to you all over again. Remember
playing hackysack in gym class? God, you were so cool
with your long hair and old car. Later, on the loveseat
in your basement, Andrew Bird spinning, we lean in

and electricity runs through my fingertips,
my breath catches in my chest. I say something
like wow & why didn’t that happen before? You
agree and even later, in bed, like the familiar strangers

we are, we move together in the dark between strobes
of moonlight streaming in the slats of the blinds.

​Ashley Kirkland writes in Ohio where she lives with her husband and sons. Her work can be found in Cordella Press, Boats Against the Current, The Citron Review, Naugatuck River Review, ONE ART, HAD, Major7thMagazine, among others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her chapbook, BRUISED MOTHER, is available from Boats Against the Current. She is a poetry editor for 3Elements Literary Review.