Words by A.A. Reinecke
It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray
and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood
the shape of: Minnesota.
St. Paul. That’s where he’s from.
St. Paul. It is noon now.
That was breakfast.
The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured
glass. The windows spoke in
tongues or through lust strained in milk.
Q: Do you love me?
A: I don’t know.
Chai was sweet grain melted
like the wetness of my mouth
and your tongue tasted still like Ian and
his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting
Q: The flask?
My plastic cup membrane shed quartz
like history nabbed from a headband.
Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything?
A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from.
Photo credit: Brandon Yung