I put a hex on myself by driving to drink
with a few local unknowns while passing
under the wide bridge of a swollen moon
and muttering: “I won’t stay out late.”
I am led inside and upstairs by a little witch
with the butteriest of brown skin. Here
a cadre of magicians make preparations
to not see straight. A codfish leans determinedly
over a pool table, a hunchback in the kitchen brewing,
and everyone lounging with chokeholds on bottlenecks
resigned, it seems, to have what is called
“a good time”.
Our master of ceremonies: a young latino
with esoteric beauty marks decorating sly
pieces of skin, like splotches of paint, one laid
delicately over his left eyelid.
He has the smug softness of a boy who,
even enduring hardship, is much too accustomed
to getting what he wants;
and his smile isn’t dangerous but
he must know exactly what snare to set:
He makes me a drink.
A haute-couture handbag of a dog brushes
happily around sixteen legs; from the top of the stairs
Monster Truck, the rabbit, watches the proceedings
I alight on the couch and try to flirt up
something like a conversation with a girl
who covers herself in ways with which
I am all too familiar.
In common moves: he inserts himself
into spaces not meant for him, but that give
It seems to be funny. I seem to like
laughing. And he’s handing out more
invitations to jokes that I would be
rude to refuse.
I am an incorrigible flirt and this
I want him to be the good boy she thinks
he is. And I almost do—
—at least, until he—
Predictably, I startle: my hand flies and “accidentally”
crash lands hard into his groin.
Of course, we all dutifully
scrunch our faces in sympathy, and I
apologize—but only after a careful smirk
and the admonition: “You should keep
your legs together.”
The night thickens.
Cupcakes come out.
(You know, I never expected desperation
to take the form of six prospective doctors
gathered in the kitchen around a pink blunt
rolled from two roaches and someone’s
electric bill, but hey.)
There is a grin in the dark winking
in and out, in and
Something happens between—
I make it home.
I lock the door, strip off
my clothes and don’t
A/N: In other news, I found out that I can do 40 consecutive push-ups whilst fairly intoxicated. I can’t put that on a resume, but I feel like it’s still moderately impressive.