TINGE Magazine - http://www.tingemagazine.org

Issue 9

Bath

 · 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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