Leslie Hodge

Leslie Hodge has poems published in Catamaran Literary Reader, The Main Street Rag, South Florida Poetry Journal, ONE ART, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Escape, is scheduled to be published by Kelsay Books in early 2025. Leslie is currently reading for The Adroit Journal. She lives in San Diego, and her website is www.lesliehodgepoet.com.

X the Unknown

You might say that I used her.
Maybe so. Or maybe you’re wrong.

We were good friends then, young women—
me on the young side of young.
I pushed her to take diving lessons
on the one day a week she had off.

          Kathy spoke like the Texan she was.
          I’m a belt and suspenders man, she’d say,
          which never failed to startle me.

          Don’t gaum it up, she’d say, and I’m tired.
          I been ironing all day with a cold iron.
          and, drawling, Well, I might could.

          But my very favorite she’d say when puzzled:
          I feel like I’m solving for X the Unknown.

Our suitcases stuffed with bikinis,
we flew to Cancun non-stop,
caught the ferry to Cozumel.

          Diving, we were mermaids among
          angelfish, puffers, sea stars, conchs.
          Night dives to see the curious octopus.
          Wreck dives, shore dives, 100-foot wall dives.

In the bars, las chicas gringas
demanded La Bamba, La Bamba,
tequila, margaritas, mezcal.

          Drift diving off the boat. Reef fish
          played hide-and-seek in the coral.

At the disco, Kathy would disappear
between I Want to Know What Love Is
and You Better Be Good to Me.
Tip-toe into our room with the dawn.

          Shimmering schools of young barracuda
          held steady against the current that pushed
          us to deep water, the rays and the sharks.

The day before leaving, last dive on the boat,
Kathy sat on the gunwale, tank and fins on,
knife strapped to her thigh, almost ready
to put on her mask, regulator, and roll
backward into the warm pulsing water—
for a moment escaping from thoughts of home,
working on solving for X the Unknown.

All I can say, she was not at the ferry,
not at the plane. Arriving in Dallas, I
was searched for drugs. They found only sand.

          Maybe she’s driving the dive boat now,
           soy capitán, soy capitán,
          or slinging drinks at palapa bars.
          I mean, what was home for her except
          a loser boyfriend, a lousy job.

Me, I’m still waiting for a postcard.
She was my friend. It wasn’t my fault.