I saw them making out, Sheila whispers from the stall next to mine. We're standing, hidden from each other on opposite sides of the same cold wall. I imagine her brother's hand surprising itself inside some girl's sweater, small hairs jittery along the map of her neck. Her eyes were shut. I open mine wide, lean closer. She was making small noises, like a bird. I form my mouth into an 0, press my lips against the door. He was licking her ear. The bow of my breath lingers, then disappears, I hate the ordinary boredom of my life, my cotton underpants, the sharp question of each hipbone. Hey, she says, knocking on the wall. I play with the lock, spitting its silver tongue into the waiting mouth of the door. What's your secret?
A. E. Stallings
for Jason "Not gulls, girls." You frown, and you insist— Between two languages, you work at words (R's and L's, it's hard to get them right.) We watch the heavens' flotsam: garbage-white Above the island dump (just out of sight), Dirty, common, greedy—only birds. OK, I acquiesce, too tired to banter. Somehow they're not the same, though. See, they rise As though we glimpsed them through a torn disguise— Spellbound maidens, wild in flight, forsaken— Some metamorphosis that Ovid missed, With their pale breasts, their almost human cries. So maybe it is I who am mistaken; But you have changed them. You are the enchanter.