Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
I crouch to the floor to scratch dried mud off the
metal clasp on my shoe while passing cars toss
light upon the silver. I count the cars like
the glowing sea rocks we found when you told me
they remind you of my voice but now,
with my hand on the black strap of my shoes
and the black strap of my dress caught on this young man’s
apron, I think of nothing but his hand on my shoulder. The
edges of his hair drawn down, sweat—
spring rolls in the fryer,
oily, metallic humidity— and waved by the
open night windows remind me of how deep eleven
years stand between
us, cold like Crater Lake, but now the stars
outside and our closed lips and
two pounds of shredded carrots and boiling milk
on the stove top the cardamom, ginger,
charred cashews, remind me of more
solitary nights. My roommate strums the side of his kitchen radio
with his left arm raised and poised to spin me to the walls, to
the swing of his old songs about peering into living room windows at night
and watching—the family t.v.,
the dog licking silver spoons,
the girls dancing alone in their mirrors,
the fathers looking hopelessly back out at him—mouthing
the words, Lovefool. Lovefool. When did we become
such buffoons.