Issue 9


 · Poetry

The perfect place for a boy to die: a city of bridges and stairs
— you said this when we met
so I replied You wouldn’t talk your shit in French if you could dance.  We were both naked,
in   the   grocery-green   enormity   of   the   floating   bath   house   on 14th street, naked but
for those cloths  of echinacea  petals  they  give   you  and right there, naked, we danced. We

danced  through  the  vocoder howl of  the noontime siren;  we danced  beneath the retired
towl of   the  City’s  foremost  star-smith,   winsome  Cape  Hat  (he  star  lance  car  danced
the  clock   tower  in   a   lone  afternoon);   we  danced  layers  of   shale  and  hundred  span
over  the  hot   spring   aquifer,  where  the   abandoned  galleon  floats  motionless,  its  hull

full  of horses  divinely diseased,  too flimsy  to ride;  we danced  like we’d swirl our ice with
a  pistol;  we  danced  and  the  black cat of  yesteryear  fell to  a panic.  We danced you took
me  home.  A  clean  light  bathed  us  in  the  blue  kitchen  as  we  spat  in a pot  until pasta
was done.  You  showed me your  statue of  god, onyx  slicked with  olive oil. You pulled me

through the kitchen, through a green door, and into a wide room, said I had them move out
everything except the  bed,
and I was busy looking into your eyes, at you undoing your hair
then your  shirt, but all that  lay on the floor,  I saw, was a spread of  weathered and smooth
sedimentary  rock;

This is the chandelier, from when I was young, the one I was telling you about
and   you  were   shaking  with   the  flowers   in   your  hand   you   picked  a  pink   petal

from  the  hair  of  my  thigh  and  dropped  it  through  a  million  years  of  stone.

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