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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