Dive Bars

by Sarah Bess Jaffe

We watched Bin Laden get shot 
through the window of an Irish pub 
in Queens. 

Well, we didn’t 
see 
it but, you know. 

I thought 
you were such a big deal. 

We were sunbitten 
that day. Remember 
when we liked the guy 
in charge,
in spite of everything?

We rode our bikes everywhere,
stuck on the BQE’s hot ribbon,
for a daylong noon because 
someone
forgot to plan, 
then went to see 
your friends,
and we watched a mirror
in the mirror, but didn’t know
how good the parody was. 

On the same couch 
we peeled off 
each other’s skin 
when it was time 
while those hot twins 
fucked on tv 
and their kingdom burned.
The books were better.
I thought you’d be better, too. 

That was a different city
of riverine warehouses,
Built By Wendy, 
no traffic, no lifeguard.
Subway for a nickel, 
Classon still uncrossed,
the streets still icy, 
uphill both ways, 
and we kissed 
in every borough. 

There was sugar where the money is,
art where the money is, 
freaks where the money is. 
Rent was triple digits. 
I still paid yours. 
I’m just good 
at pulling rabbits 
out of hats. 
You taught me that. 

I threw up at Macri Park—
which out of all the gin joints
is still open, despite Hermès—
after giving some guy 
a fake name. 
Thigh-high socks were in,
I wore them out for you.
In those days I got asked
(just the once) to model
for some old artist. 
Old, like 42. 
I’m not built like a model but I was wearing 
somebody else’s glasses and I didn’t know 
how to see myself 
anyway.

Body talk was still in,
Predators were in, too.
But what if I’d said yes?
I wore that black dress
every day with cheap shoes.
Blisters are no match
for a tight ass 
and optimism. 

I still thought 
the arc of history 
went only one way.
Now that, 
that part I miss. 

Meanwhile inside, 
Ryland made bad decisions
with that leather jacket—
but only I woke up sick to impress. 

That day I saw Lou Reed 
at the Sophie Calle gallery
and I felt like 
I finally made it 
to New York City, 
even though somebody else’s dad
had to tell me who they both were. 

I think Ryland married a poet
and Tyler married a poet.
I loved you like salt 
& without simile. 
I’ve always liked prose 
But I never did have taste.

Lonely

by J.C. Henderson

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Sarah Bess Jaffe is an award-winning audio producer, visual artist, and Creative Writing MFA candidate at St. Joseph’s University, where she is a 2024-25 Barbara Germack Foundry Fellow and co-editor of The Writer’s Foundry Review. Her work has been featured in Fusion Fragment, JAKE magazine, and countless Penguin Random House Audio productions. Sarah will be a 2025 writer-in-residence at La Porte Peinte Centre Pour Les Arts in Noyers-sur-Serein, France.

J.C. Henderson was originally a medical biologist with a doctoral degree. In the last decade, her vocation has been dedicated to art and poetry, publishing both artworks and poetry in numerous art and literary magazines. She attended different art school programs and studied with individual artists. She has participated in a number of exhibitions over the past few years and has sold hundreds of her original paintings.