Brighton

by Sarah Fletcher

You forget you have a cold
for five minutes, and

your long earrings seem to
spin in orbits around you.

The only magazine headline you can read
says the “hot mess” look is in again,

so you feel accomplished
because your hair is unwashed,

black heels dangling over your shoulder,
red blisters hitting the sidewalk.

You breathe heavily, in and out,
from night exhaustion and vodka zing.

You don’t stumble. You don’t dare. You fly:
dancing into the obscurity of swaying street lamps.

because for once the mirror, the ever-present eye,
is a friend that you hug too hard,

leaving bruise marks you find both
hilarious and mystifying the morning after.