by Catherine Partin
let’s just rehearse, okay? i hit a car on my way here, thinking about you, and then i lost myself in your part of town. mississippi albina, ash ash (you poke and stir flesh and bone there is nothing there?): stumptown coffee ground to a whir in slate-grey cups. flannel linens and a heavy boot, flushed fuchsia like a freshly bloomed bruise. sandpaper your whiskey jaw, ivory bones beneath david crownless king you a hot surprise in top-heavy gravity pull drag into a tomb cold with dew. round stone beneath gentle fingers, a moss-covered log under, inside rushing water but green pillows, musk. "i’m going to do something controversial." a glass dark thick wine, blood nectar spiny butter prickles under the tongue and tart with bittersweet pang between my teeth. we swigged reckless giggles before I pushed you down to kiss. there was a gleam a spark in your wet marble eye, the pulse in your throat - a leap, you cough, I die. my breath caught in your thorns and. fevered brow, shock of lips tingled buzz oblivion - the pointed v of your cotton shirt. those tender shards of glass reflecting beauty cruel and shameless. you noble vulture, you lean leather in blue shadows, rain-streaked city bus window no umbrella dripping forehead lined tan hide, hooded lashes you gentle brute with rose lips and soft eyes.