Issue 14

The tails of your snores tickle the nipples of the constellations.
Your shaved head gleams against the pillow,
a lone discernible character on a rain-drenched rice paper scroll.
Your massive arms enfold me,
perhaps for protection,
perhaps against flight.
Will I ever know?
My tongue wanders between the tendrils of your pelt,
as I unearth the landmarks of your day—
the spoken word in the bodega,
Dunkin’ Doughnuts hazelnut coffee,
and most prominently,
your habitual South Indian take-out.
Your pistol winks flirtatiously on a distant chair.
I stir,
harden as your grip tightens.
Is kissing permitted? How about a cuddle then?

The stars embark on their retreat,
oblivious to my protestation.
Dawn’s menace presses against the curtains.
The phrase “Stay away, Day!” stomps
through my torpor like a right-wing protest chant.
Your fingers trace a path to their favorite vacation spots.
Then you are arisen, a rhapsody of black into blue.
Soon, the running water; later, the foggy glass—
the lanyard of dread, inevitability, and song.
Now suddenly you are alongside,
pulling on the polyester pants that suit you so.
A leather jacket materializes.
Before the slap on my ass,
against the vista of improbably flocked wallpaper,
I consider to ask:
May we visit, some day, even some night,
in a place other than this?