I can’t remember
if we kissed;
the night to me is squares
of black and blankets.
“Don’t. I haven’t shaved
in months.”
I can’t remember
his hands,
how they moved. But
in the morning
a condom in the trashcan,
of white, and he was gone;
the door unlocked and the lights on
in my dead Christmas tree.




Brenna Womer is a graduate student at Missouri State University where she teaches composition and serves as an Assistant Editor of Moon City Review. Her work is forthcoming in The Dr. T. J. Eckleburg Review, Bayou Magazine, Grist, Dewpoint, and Sierra Nevada Review and has appeared in Midwestern Gothic and NEAT.