portion of the artwork for Caleb Knight's poetry

Love Songs of the Unmarried and Childless
Caleb Knight

I strum and sing “Harvest Moon” for you on a mattress in Denver
where everyone we know is suddenly getting married, and we are not.

I say, “I don’t know how to live away from the east coast anymore.
I don’t know how to live somewhere that I’m happy,” and you don’t

know what I mean. We lock fingers, approach the season of
friends and siblings becoming parents, and we do not. We do not

want to bring children into a dying world. Or, you don’t, and I
have stopped pressing the matter. In Denver, we drink mocktails

made with liquor-less spirits and ume shrubs. Our engaged friends tell us,
“Parenting requires bravery.” They don’t really mean it at us,

their drinks are just real cocktails, and they are about to be brave.
I let the strings slide off my calloused fingertips. You thank me

for learning your favorite love song.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022