Minor Planets - Beth Sherman
It’s my lunch hour so I drive to The Shack,
sit on top of a picnic table in the parking lot,
watching Billy Plaskin bring fried clams and watered-
down Cokes to people whose idea of fine dining
is when there’s still enough paper napkins left in the dispenser.
Hot dogs soak in water so long their skin gets all crinkled.
Too much salt in the fries, too much trash in the ketchup smeared bins
I used to empty at the end of my shift.
Billy Plaskin has three moles on the inside of his thigh,
shaped like a snow cone.
There are calluses on the tips of his fingers,
his eyes so pure blue they look fake.
You could slide a blade of grass between the gap
in his two front teeth.
If I don’t love him it’s not for lack of trying
After closing time nothing’s moving in the lot
but windblown trash and cicadas and Billy and me.
His hand slips under the waistband of my shorts.
I pretend not to notice anything,
not the splinter lodged in the small of my back,
not the greasy smells or the way he sighs like a grateful St. Bernard.
Billy is showing me Ursa Minor,
ladle and bowl like a dollar store shovel,
common, easily broken.
When something falls from the sky.
A comet – flailing, dying.
And I wonder what remains of minor planets.
Are they cold and barren or bright sparks from a distant cigarette?
Fixed in space or always moving?
On the brink of colliding before God or fate steps in?
After Billy drives away, I stare at his tail lights
until they disappear into the hungry darkness
Black road, black heart –
traces of me.
Originally published The Evansville Review in 2015
Beth Sherman has an MFA in creative writing from Queens College, where she teaches in the English department. Her poetry and prose have been published in Portland Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Blue Lyra Review, Sandy River Review, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dreams, Flash Boulevard, Sou’wester and elsewhere. She is also a Pushcart Prize and multiple Best of the Net nominee, including a 2023 BOTN nomination for flash fiction.
