'Might As Well': A Poem by A. H. Lewis


We pluck each other’s strings

the way only lovers do,

two puppets master over one another,

marionette sweethearts.

Lift my arms, I’ll tug on your leg.

You raise my hand to your chest

as your eyes blink at me slowly

once, twice.

Your mouth opens and my mouth opens.

We know we shouldn’t, I know you could

just as easily snip my strings and leave me

in a heap on the floor, and I you,

but we’ve tangled into deliciously intricate knots,

our X’s from which we hang embrace

in their wooden hug.

Bring your strings over here just once more,

maybe a couple once mores,

before the real master comes back.

Just let it happen while the master isn’t here.

It’s too late to pretend we’re just

dolls for the fun of it—we might as well move

like the strings aren’t there at all.


A. H. Lewis is a 26-year-old poet from Pittsburgh, PA, with an English degree from Allegheny College and a Disney addiction cultivated since birth. Her first collection of poetry, The Smallness of Everything Else, is forthcoming from Dorrance Publishing in spring 2019, along with other pieces published in various publications and social media accounts. She created her own freelance editing website, Happily Edit After, after editing for various projects and clients for around a decade. For Lewis, there is no weather too warm, no blanket too soft, and no bowl of gnocchi too big. Find her on Twitter @AllyyLewis, on Instagram @ahlewww, or at: www.happilyeditafter.net

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