I woke up in a hot room in Detroit
after pushing two fingers into my vagina
and hooking them into your memory:
lips, tongue, and jaw.
Sometimes I picture my fishbowl
mouth drinking up your body,
you, spit and collateral damage—
your father’s ghost, fleshy
and good-humored, eating at a table
with you, post-apocalypse, then you
waking up with tears, feeling stunned.
I am 3,000 miles away. I cannot put
my hand over your heart,
that softest spot on your chest,
which I once pressed my lips hard into.
I touch the computer keys
and you touch your computer keys
and we transmit messages
I say, You are your father, spectral light,
hologram. I say, you are eros pulsing
on the horizon, the flicker of stars,
and between my legs, a light which
waxes and wanes—a lightning
bug, a desk lamp, such rare
incandescence. Did I tell you that
my father was a soldier, that twelve
years swallowed him up? Can
you feel your uncle’s absence
flickering? Tonight, the LED lights
are scattered on the floor. Your mouth
painted stars onto my body.
Where your tongue tip touched,
a constellation lit up.
Image Credits: Lali Masriera
