by Emily Costantino

i started the car with cold hands
stood there, sloping left
not loud but clearly depressed
making love to the better than
acting slow-to-start draining glands
stood there pump off nothing left
waiting to know you except
looked tired like anyone can

your body my light total
a frozen gallon of milk pouring out in clumps
mine in the shop still waiting to restart
not loud but resting against the window sill
i find you one morning a solid lump
and ask, what is longing if not art

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