I vomited until there was nothing in me. I called to him
and he crawled inside
the covers, told me this
will pass, and parted my legs.
He said, I’m joking with you, and split the curtains
down the center. What did I expect? To believe
is one thing, and to burn, its brother.
I kept a pile of coins on the nightstand. The sun danced
across the metal surfaces. The coins fidgeted
then clinked on the floor as the bed seized
beneath us. I vomited:
if I had the mettle,
if the curtains of my ribs parted,
if I unlatched my heart’s coin purse,
if the pulsing light inside my chest—
all I had were conditions.
I walked his apartment’s
parking lot; I raised my arms,
and the sun shone through
the circle I had become.
In his bedroom, shirt open, chest hair
like bolts of electricity between lapels
he called to me. I crawled into bed and lapped my tongue
across him until his body shook like iron
shavings around this magnetic tip.