Your Mother, All Along

On my way to our first date, I nearly run
over the head of a dead deer—

her fresh corpse inking out
into the road, just around the bend.

Her belly burst, her eyes
open. One beer in, I have already decided

that I hate you—the way you assume
that I don’t want a man who agrees

with me, the way you find ways
to touch me. You reveal that your mother

hit a deer just hours ago. She
was driving to the book club you attend

together. I think she might have deserved
it—your mother, that is—this violent

intrusion on her life. I feel embarrassed
for you, for the way that you are embarrassed

for your mother. At the end
of our date you try to kiss me. Little

do you know that I have learned to listen
to my body and its little revulsions. It takes

a subtle twist, a firm push—I free myself
and go home. The next morning

on my way to work, the deer is gone—
removed by some hand or machine. All

that remains is a burgundy stain
fingering out over the pavement.

Bartending for a Stamp With my Face on It

Bartending for the little guy behind my sternum. Bartending to play make believe. Bartending for all the Keno machines in America. Bartending to quit the job that makes me drive. Bartending to reach my childhood home. Bartending to hear myself talk. Bartending to wear a pushup bra. Bartending to hold many truths in the palm on my hand. Bartending to hold many truths at the bottom of my glass. Bartending while I wait for my mom to come pick me up. Bartending to sit on the floor with someone—let them take my contacts out. Bartending for a little while. Bartending to find out why all the dead elk along I-15 are missing their heads. Bartending to reasonably smoke a cigarette. Bartending to have something to do on New Year’s Eve. Bartending to reach the final boss. Bartending so no one will come looking. Bartending in the pages of Cosmopolitan. Bartending for a case study. Bartending for all the men who know I’m smarter than them and want to fuck me stupid for it. Bartending in the middle of a perfectly made omelet. Bartending because it’s the only thing I’m good at. Bartending to take my truck from dive to dive. Bartending because I don’t believe in Botox. Bartending because, as a baby, I looked my dad in the eyes and he saw me there, brand new and wonderful and he tried so hard to not be angry with me. Bartending because I am stockpiling while I’m still young. Bartending while I am still young. Bartending to afford the tanning bed. Bartending because my big sister is going to be a lawyer. Bartending to put my phone down for a night. Bartending to drink a Red Bull. Bartending so the party never ends. Bartending to write about it. Bartending because there’s bars in every city. Bartending to wear myself out. Bartending to kill time. Bartending to watch NFL package for free. Bartending to meet the pope. Bartending so that, on a November Tuesday at 10 am, I can drive along the Flathead River and watch the trumpet swans in their little consumptions—their backsides like dusty white torches lighting up the slow current. Bartending to give people something to look at. Bartending along the Continental Divide. Bartending for work and for play. Bartending because the boy I like won’t sleep with me. Bartending instead of anything else.

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Kate Garcia is a poet and editor living in the Inland Empire of Southern California. She earned her MFA from the University of Montana in 2022. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, The Florida Review, Cider Press Review, and elsewhere.