O coming days of spinal health and sad incontinence—drought-infested pockets of the body—pre-cancerous cells ticking like dirty bombs your partner keeps touching to feel the grain—the sandpaper skin—sandpaper sky—tactile—constellated—its mythos death—a moonless connect-the-dots—therefore fear in the head that keeps pulsing stroke—night sweats—insomnia—active brain—television 4 AM churning endlessly yesterday’s endless laundry—maybe that’s why nostalgia tastes like tin in the mouth—between the teeth—you can’t go back—you go back—the pure uranium of longing digging up those sweet bodies—no decay in them yet—the tricks of memory so quick they are digital washouts—deepfake selves in a wreckage of clothes—back seat—aqua Mustang—some dead end country road—it’s winter—you start the engine to crank the heat—hear a song or two—then back to lips and tongues—I am listening to six young women talk outside a coffee shop now—they are watching me type—they want to be in this poem—in real time—not that other place with a late model Ford in it that rusted out and was sold by my father for junk—they would like to pose awhile with their styles—their ironed shorts and even tans and open-toed sandals—their painted nails—and add their perfumed white girl funk to this Saturday vibe that has cool air and some invisibility in it—and a tray of bones
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Fiction - ISSUE #28