By Bridget Bell

The snow folded a halcyon hush over Jersey City, and I
could still make a map of all the places where we fell in
love, the snow in high drifts on the sidewalks 

where I’d later find my lost keys, shiny and heavy,
a brass-toothed life on display in a wet circle of
leftover blizzard skin: 

the bar, the press, the P.O. Box, car, apartment.
Praise the lord. I wouldn’t have to tell my bosses.
We laughed at my luck 

back then when we could still laugh at things
like that because there is so much promise in
the opening. 

Barely off the main trail, we tore off our pants could
not waste the time it would take 
to cut deeper into the Pine Barrens, and later, more laughter, 

a tick on my ass. This started with two
barstools dragged close, my knee pressed into
your knee, the pull so steel-strong 

as my fingers swam beneath a shield of sticky counter to find
your fingers. And up against the steering wheel, my old car
parked at a scenic Utah lookout, 

and after each bar shift,
I fought sleep, drove north out of the city to crash next to you
on a blowup mattress in the basement

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Bridget Bell’s (she/her) poetry collection is All That We Ask of You Is to Always Be Happy (CavanKerry Press 2025). She teaches composition and literature at Durham Technical Community College, proofreads manuscripts for Four Way Books, and pours pints at Ponysaurus Brewery. bridgetbellpoetry.com