We stumbletouch in the dark, or rather, the getting-dark, the way
I already know how we, will end. Headlights brush our blunt bodies.
The yard: bruised bottles of vodka strangle bluebells, two pairs of shoes,
one punching bag. After a montage of latex and rhythmic flailing
a lock clicks, brakes squeak—we come up for air:
oh fuck he says i think my dad is home
put your shirt on grab your shoes and shit just sit
sit over there and shut up and help me fuck just stay
stay here here.
He is panicked: manic and melting. The father speckles our universe
abusive, we are his medium: expectant fallout. We wait
five minutes, twenty, forty minutes. It’s okay, ya know. No sound. I take
his waist and he crumbles. Like a nesting doll, I pull him open and he
disappears under all that sweater. Those skim milk shoulders
glow with welts. I am late, or rather, too late, the way radiation is a quiet
massacre—hollow dawn on empty country, trees dusted from their bark.
*Originally published in Specter Magazine