Portrait at Thirty-Six

^{—after The Portrait at 34 Project by O, Miami}

Thirty-six is a dyke bar  
in another city where you are  
unknown, holding hands  
with a woman you just met  
but feels like home. 

Thirty-six is uncalibrated,  
a scale that tries to balance  
the weight of elation  
against a crib mobile playing  
Clair de Lune on repeat. 

Thirty-six is a pair  
of chilled flutes, a bottle  
of knock-your-socks-off  
she bought at auction, the command  
to come hungry, stay late. 

Thirty-six is a long string 
held taut on either end  
by two women who  
draw in the slack  
toward one another. 

Thirty-six is a corkscrew,  
a compass, a patch of blue,  
a mangrove, a fortune teller,  
a Dragon Mouth orchid  
that opens in a warm breeze. 

Thirty-six is a runaway  
truck, spewed gravel, 
adrenaline rush, finger  
clutch, relief when you idle  
at the bottom of the mountain. 

Thirty-six is an uneven sidewalk, 
a stumble, a buckle, a thump  
on the tailbone when you land  
on the ground, bruise so fresh  
it doesn’t even hurt, yet.