Desire closes off
my airway. My girl with her steady hands,
with her art-show nails, with her
little gold necklace she hasn’t taken off in years.
I was passed out in a Paris apartment.
In my dream: two necklaces. A fish and a fish skeleton.
Next day at the fair: fish skeleton necklace. A sign from
the high heavens that,
even though I was feral and rabid-confused,
fate seeked to leash me to her bike rack.

Who could forget our
vomit-speckled Honda civic and her sweet
indifference?
The science museum: the universe condensed
and made molasses so it could slip down
our seven-year-old throats and satiate the mouths that always
breathed out: why and how.

We both yearn for the days of cold, plastic dolls
and synthesized dramatics and finger foods.
And I want
close contact
as if her flesh was fireglow
and I, a weary traveler.

– AJ Powell