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GROCERIES
You’re so haptic in the morning
Window unit blowing ash
Line of neosporin down your thigh
Whatever technology your fingers have for finding me
Sounds out my lips / muffled
We tussle
I drop
Baby what’s a fulcrum
What’s full
To exist outside everything
Jobless and on the clock
I wore the strap
In my teeth
I drug it down
Thru clench and sweat of me saying
You’re so baby
Little struggles in murmur i
Touching the edge of whatever plane it is
We’re on, surfacing
To stretch a half hour
I have sex pee on my cheek
I have thirty-seven reasons why

We should never go back to work
I have a slip of paper asking it not to end
Running a lighter over what
We mouth
The morning in window smear
The milk and the bubbles and the oranges
Half peeled
Granola bars you keep bedside

NUMEROUS 
           after Jack Spicer

Holding fast to a couple of genders
Only knowing what’s happening
When it gets told to you by someone on screen

Never the sensation of getting sucked off
Inside an invisible organ
Or how the flesh gentles
Synthetic plush made machine round

We found in each other a pulsing
The way you flipped the blinds back
To quiver what’s natural
Till it shudders and breaks
​
Drowning the blankets in predawn
Laughing as we gasp
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP