At fifteen I believed I moved in a rarified
bubble, all feeling in the world contained
within, the dichotomy of in and out sharp,
a line in the crackling dust of a dark
television screen: me vs. all. That summer,
I grazed on fudgesicles in the shadow
of an abandoned power station, dragonflies
zipping in tandem through skeletal metal:
tumbling trapeze act, wings beating
a rivergreen trance. Mating in thick
August air, they hovered my sticky hand,
the clacking of Walkman cassette reels
unnoticed. I played one song ten thousand
times, my theme, headphones keeping it
private, between my ears—an illusion
of singularity, of experience. They flew off,
skimming a stagnant puddle, the fallow
transformer dull under dwindling light,
not humming. I didn't have words
for the pins and needles. A mosquito
lit down and sipped from my thigh.
I fingered the welt, blood drops
smearing my leg. The red against white,
almost membrane, almost a wing.
I knew a place. A guy with forearms
graffitti'd like boxcars. Somewhere
they won't see, I whispered. All you
have is your skin, and what it covers.
Until you feel on your neck a dank breath
and the hint of teeth, like a new girl’s
acrylic nails, how can you know blood
rushing out through artery, in by vein?
I have learned to read a jawline:
scan for tension—too loose, he loses
focus, yawns, smacking chops. Tight
means a trap snapped shut—
the bone crush! O the girly shrieks.
I dwell in the space between.
Trained for cues, he poses still. Cup
his muzzle, spread the jaws. Nobody
told me: how I would fall into blank,
dull eyes, my lungs flattened, useless.
There’s one way in and two ways out.
When I’m in there, my mind goes
pliable, a fabric softener sheet, balled
up, then unfurled. His mouth, my head:
act natural. Count back, ten to one—
spectacle feeds on illusions of control.
Edge of the earth, slippered toes balance,
flexing. A platform lip, a spotlight. Freeze.
Unfrozen, instinct tips reflex: the inching
climb backwards. Stepping down, rung after rung.
Ring of mine, your perfect circle has no end, no
beginning. Rolling steps in reverse, sawdust swirling.
Swirl of ten thousand faces, a blur. Shocked
murmurs roll over me, out the door, music swelling.
Swollen hands begat swollen hands, arms without
question. One man’s door is another man’s window.
Windowless, a tent seizes air and holds. There is in
and there is out, but only within. All questions catch.
Caught in empty space, tumbling weightless, within,
a window is a door. Is a trap. Is a trapeze. Is a ledge.
Amusing enough, our games:
treat for trick, what I won’t do
for a touseled mane, a rump
steak cube. My paws press her
girly shoulders, horns grunt
our leonine waltz. My breath so
sharp on her neck. The algebra
of appetite—so much depends
on x. My cage, her ring. My
tongue lolling: she smells like syrup
& smoke. Some kinds of love
have you both on your knees:
her head inside my mouth agape.
This tension, hard to beat—
the hunger, the snack, they taste
the same: a little salty, a bit sweet.