“I tried putting myself in Mert’s shoes—I was in his underwear after all—and wondered at how easily he had offered me something so intimate. Realizing that all my efforts had been so transparent, that I had no protective cover whatsoever, was like being shoved into cold water again and again.”

You have seen this play a thousand times,
but as you are about to wake up
for the first time you will notice a telegram
on the gramophone:

pulled gently
but the scalp was smooth and cleft
strange I thought but it will be ok

While the wax is drying I write different endings to our story
They always include the ceremony she suggested
where we lick bee syrup off each other’s fingers

No one trusts the city streets any longer, and the streets trust no one either. The buildings, too, tip their gutters to pour their algae onto mute life.

I’ve figured out other things too, things that would be obvious to anyone but me, like how those friends weren’t really my friends. They were Buddy’s. And going our own ways would feel like nothing.

so much depends on how many

steps you are able to take

after crossing

imaginary lines

Beneath her floral shampoo, I swore I could detect it: the tinny scent of recycled air. It gave me a thrill, almost arousal, from pondering whether she noticed something similar in me, that elephant odor of aged skin.

You can’t place me. I could be any
thing in the summer
when my tan has vacationing ladies
in Williamsburg touching my arms, wet gaze on my frizz—​
can you believe I’m from where you are, lady?