Long Distance

COHORT 2

The light: silk-heavy, blue,

It laundry-lines itself 

from San Francisco to the Atlantic. 

His voice candling my ear: 

a poetic pulse: negation 

of objectivity. Negation of all 

the right romances I’ve ever 

witnessed. From the burning 

phone, his voice & guitar breathe 

together into my ear: 

no sound no Hallelujahs

still I was praying on the train ride 

home 

Yes — his voice 

like an entire year. In the kitchen, 

I eat yesterday’s takeout for dinner.

Facing heaven peppers 

swallow my tongue like blood:

piles of red Szechuan sheaths searching for a body 

to wrap around. I find myself 

later tracing the shape of his name 

onto my mattress. The hours 

window themselves 

into blackness on either side 

of the clock’s every tick, every 

empty construction. Then the minutes

disintegrate completely: my hands 

like his hands: time fevers 

my fingertips: a night ready for unpiecing.