Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Michael Obilade   While You and I Count Backwards Fourteen is a fickle number - it's even, but it doesn't feel even, with those long, lanky legs braces, arms and elbows jutting everywhere It's almost as bad as its younger sibling thirteen - with her middle-school dances and everlasting crushes But take me to twelve again, to that day - that single perfect day - when we held hands under the table while watching Gattaca in the dark.   Next Poem
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