Kat Giordano

A Revelation

Sometimes, in life, the plot begins to sour

so much that you find yourself collapsing

to simple kindness. There, alone,

your pupils primed for anything but

the most all-consuming dark,

you fall to the untouchable feet

of your benefactor and squint

into his hot, merciful light.

The morning after you told me

I was no longer worth any

of my burdens, I dragged my ass

down the block for a cup of coffee

and a snack whose specifics

had yet to be decided.

Listless and empty-eyed,

the kind that goes away after anything

over a half hour’s sleep, I entered the room

like a bad smell. I had an agenda

of the worst sort: to be

petty and unknowably hard.

I walked up to the counter

and ordered a macchiato

like I had somewhere better to be.

The barista asked for my name

and I replied without looking up.

“With a C or a K?” he said,

and I answered shortly

as if he should have known better,

feeling a twinge in some forgotten place,

like a phantom limb.

A few minutes passed, and I left

with my cup and nothing else, too scared

to peek at his eyes. “Have a good one,”

he called as the door shut behind me

and I chugged, letting it burn me

the entire way down.

I got back to my apartment,

and I wept.

Published 11-26-17

Kat Giordano is a poet and massive crybaby in Pittsburgh, PA. Her poems have appeared in Philosophical Idiot, The Cincinnati Review, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and others. They have also been known to show up trembling on people’s doorsteps in the middle of the night, too traumatized to explain what they’ve seen. She is the co-editor of Philosophical Idiot and can usually be found overindulging in her shoddy mental health at katgiordano.com or on Twitter at @giordkat.
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