I want to lick someone with an antelope for a head. A whole-person-boxer for a fist. Circulatory, fruited over nostalgia to overcome me like a truck I’ll drive over his body while he reaches for a telephonic breast. The way gods do when they create the first animal cracker steams of existence. Fat plant and vernix. The shattered cursive equations my love was capable of. I said there will never be a night like this How is it I was right? How fibrous and incidental it seems. The tiny leather jackets we wore. What was it about that quality that I admired? Loping around like a christening pole-cat.
Copyright © 2010 by Sarah Gambito. Used with permission of the author.