“Aubrie” By Cord Moreski

My parents had just killed their bedroom lights
when I decided to sit on the porch after supper
listening to Let It Be by The Replacements
and sipping on Fat Tire in a broken beach chair.
It was September and all that was left
in this shore town were locals
and the subtle hints of autumn in the ocean air.
That was when my little brother Andy came out
of the house and introduced me to Aubrie.

He told me as he took a seat that he met her
when he was six years old. Andy snuck
into our older sister’s bedroom
and saw Aubrie’s reflection in posters
of Ginger Spice and Belinda Carlisle,
in palettes of eye shadow and lipstick,
and in the array of powder brushes and bags
scattered like treasure along our sister’s vanity.

They continued to talk in high school.
He wrote love poems for her
during eighth-period composition class
repeating the mantra LOVE HAS NO IDENTITY!  

Then they moved to Astoria together
after college. She told him to grow his hair
past his ears and down his shoulders
to drown out the sound of gossip
that would be about him, to paint
his fingernails blacker than the looks
he would receive, to wear
his thrift store dresses and stilettos
better than any woman he would ever know.

“One day,” Andy told me as we clinked
our beers together, “I’m going to introduce her
to Mom and Dad. But that’s whenever she’s ready.”

.