Head Space

by Remigius Recchia

After Tünde Darvay

My hands are sometimes
corduroy & I’m wondering

if I still fit inside your jeans,
inside your lightbulb pocket.

I can still see your breath, dank
river drivel & stale mint, pressing

syllables on my cheek & leaving
wet traces for days. Diogenes

feeds the animals—probably
their last meal—under harsh

kitchen florescence, knowing
these wolves will swallow

his last paycheck. They are bristle-
yellow & ghost teeth, thorned

parasite grip. What no one
tells a man is he will always

remember his first abuser,
house-key love turned to ash

inside a see-through vase. His
body an upside-down flower.

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