XXVI. Secondhand Fun.

Author’s Note,

I’m trying something new: sharing a bit more of my writing process. Some pieces will live here in stages, from first drafts to later revisions. The version you see first will always be the most current, but if you scroll down, you might find earlier iterations...Small glimpses of how a piece shifts, rewrites itself, and finds its final shape. Not every piece will have this, but a few will. It feels right to let some of them grow in the open.

For what it's worth,

Charlene Iris

---

**Current Form: The Finishing Pass**

Laughter ripples like heat above the field.

I open my mouth and a moth flies out.

I mistake noise for meaning,

every

single

time.

I have been trying to pass as one of the joyous,

to mimic their ease, their fluent laughter.

Some part of me keeps missing the cue;

their gladness spills over,

I stay dry,

a lip against the rim of the world.

Camera flashes:

small artificial suns.

A jostle, an elbow against my breast.

My hands, obedient, clap late.

Faithfully late,

the moment faithless.

I am a fig at a frat party,

sticky with sweetness no one asked for.

A chant blooms,

and I pretend to know its god.

For a second, I almost do.

Desire trembles:

that close to feeling, it almost counts.

The prayer breaks—

A receipt skates across the bleachers,

the world fumbling its scraps.

Even paper believes it might still belong.

Until it doesn't.

Joy:

loud,

depthless,

a mirage mistaken for a sea.

Belonging is choreography performed underwater:

beautiful, slow, impossible to breathe.

The field exhales.

I text the void,

search how to feel alive at a football game,

backspace the plea.

Wouldn't want to sound

too wanting.

The screen glows.

My face, rehearsed.

A moth flutters at the edge,

drawn to a light that isn't real.

Sound spills over me.

Through me.

Past me.

I am ringing.

Emptied.

Echoing.

The crowd erupts.

Their joy lifts my lips.

I smile,

half a second late.

Faithfully late.

faithless.

Secondhand joy.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.

---

**The Nearly There**

Laughter ripples like heat above the field.

I open my mouth and a moth flies out.

I mistake noise for meaning,

every

single

time.

I have been trying to pass as one of the joyous,

to mimic their ease, their fluent laughter.

Some part of me keeps missing the cue,

their gladness spills over;

I stay dry,

a lip against the rim of the world.

Camera flashes:

small artificial suns.

A jostle, an elbow against my breast.

My hands, obedient, clap late.

Faithfully late,

the moment faithless.

I am a fig at a frat party,

sticky with sweetness no one asked for.

A chant blooms,

and I pretend to know its god.

For a second, I almost do.

Desire trembles:

that close to feeling, it almost counts

Joy, I’ve learned,

is louder than it is deep.

A mirage mistaken for a sea.

Belonging is choreography performed underwater:

beautiful, slow, impossible to breathe.

I text the void,

google how to feel alive at a football game.

No answer, just reflection.

A moth flutters at the edge of the screen,

drawn to a light that isn't real.

I want to go home.

The crowd erupts.

I rehearse the right expression,

something between awe and self-erasure.

A stadium light flickers,

perhaps in prayer.

Sound spills over me, through me, past me.

I am ringing, emptied, echoing.

Secondhand fun.

I want to go home.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.

---

**First Rewrite**

Laughter ripples like heat above the field.

I open my mouth and a moth flies out.

I mistake noise for meaning,

every

single

time.

I have been trying to pass as one of the joyous,

to mimic their ease, their fluent laughter.

Some part of me keeps missing the cue,

their gladness overflows; I stay dry,

a lip against the rim of the world.

Camera flashes:

small artificial suns.

A jostle, an elbow against my tit.

My hands, obedient, clapping late—

faithfully late, the moment faithless.

I am a fig at a frat party,

sticky with sweetness no one asked for.

A chant blooms,

and I pretend to know its god.

I keep trying to let it reach me,

this thing everyone else seems to feel.

Desire trembles:

I want to feel it so badly it almost counts.

Joy, I’ve learned,

is louder than it is deep,

a mirage mistaken for a sea.

Belonging is choreography performed underwater:

beautiful, slow, impossible to breathe.

I text the void,

google how to feel alive at a football game.

No answer, just reflection.

A moth flutters at the edge of the screen,

drawn to a light that isn't real.

I want to go home.

The crowd erupts.

I rehearse the right expression for the next score.

Something between awe and self-erasure.

A stadium light flickers,

perhaps in prayer.

Sound spills over me, through me, past me.

I am ringing, emptied, echoing.

I want to go home.

Secondhand fun.

---

**An Initial Draft**

Laughter ripples like heat above the field.

I open my mouth and a moth flies out.

I mistake noise for meaning, 

every single time.

I have been trying to pass as one of the joyous, 

to mimic their ease, their fluent laughter. 

Some part of me keeps missing the cue. 

Their happiness drips;

I stay dry.

The camera flashes, 

small artificial suns. 

Someone’s elbow on my tit. 

And I clap half a beat late, 

as if summoning my own echo.

I am a fig at a frat party, 

sticky with sweetness no one asked for.

A chant blooms, 

and I pretend to know its god. 

I keep trying to let it reach me, 

this thing everyone else seems to feel. 

I want to feel it so badly it almost counts.

I’ve learned that joy is louder than it is deep, 

that belonging is choreography performed underwater.

I text the void. 

Then google how to feel alive at a football game. 

I want to go home.

I rehearse the right expression for the next score: 

something between awe and self-erasure. 

A stadium light flickers—perhaps in prayer.

My ears ring with secondhand fun.

Want to go home.