you: arm & hammer toothpaste slobbers 
towards your chin and i don’t even have
the itch to thumbscoop it away. 
framed by the bathroom doorway, you perform 
a pop song while your phone thumps its tiny bass pulse.
this recital is more for the fandom
of your own reflection in the mirror than for me, 
which only raises the stakes of hitting the high notes.
the toothbrush wedges down the corner of your mouth 
to make room for the peppermint suds 
you gargle through during the chorus. 
the intervals between lyrics are a time to either
rework the instrumentals into nasally vocal solos,
or feverishly brush the enamel like a kid who thinks
a few furious scrubs will keep the cavities away.
you lasso your shirt over your head at the final
crescendo before the end. as the room yields to a staccato
quiet, your body folds into itself. standing in your boxers, 
you bow. the proud and bent you during this silence:
this is who i choose to remember.

BRITTANY COPPLA is a nonfiction candidate pursuing her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College, where she is the digital editor for the program's literary journal, LUMINA. Brittany is particularly interested in writing about furniture, names, bodies (specifically earlobes), and sleep. Her work has found homes in the Poetry Annals' anthology The Anatomy of Desire, Typishly, Red Queen Literary Magazine, Asterism, Colonnades, Visions, LUMINA, and more. She likes when people call her B, and her day-to-day words can be found on Twitter.