Five Poems
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by K. Andrew Turner
Aaron You remind me of a porn star in all the best ways: your body chiseled face of sex thick dick but as vacuous and boring as stone. We never got beyond small talk, even in person. I am as close as a help desk you take ages to say anything I have already forgotten the meaning before you open your mouth. I wanted so much to like you yet we might as well hail from different galaxies or universes. Maybe one day, I’ll learn to talk and you’ll learn to say more than platitudes. Scotty On our first date, Tinder video, we talked about our dreams, your visit with your mom and my family issues. We spent hours each day on the phone before meeting. You were more adventurous and urged me to come out of my shell but cautious is my nature. We fought over COVID tests you visiting friends seeing family and I couldn’t go on. Torn between keeping myself and family safe, and your solace, I chose duty, cursed my morals. You ended it before I could say anything, unwilling to wait any longer, all blurred motion and energy. I hear the clock tick, tick, ticking. Beto Veracruz was beautiful, like you in the afternoon light. Late May, we met at an ice cream stand the heat of summer continuous and humid. How could I not stare? You’d decided to be shirtless according to the weather, and I watched every muscle dance under your skin. You asked my name and I melted faster than the ice cream in your hands. Alone, you asked me to come with you, more native here than your American, to show me sites, the beats, ride bikes. At your place, I marveled how pristine your space was. “Amigos,” you said, coaxing Spanish into my American ears. “Many friends?” and I curse that I never learned enough Spanish. Hearing you speak is enough the deep rumble conveying more than words ever could. “Yes,” you reply. “Many friends come so we keep it clean.” You let me gaze in wonder for a moment then give me a fresh margarita forgotten moments later when I’m in your arms thicker than my head and I’m drowning in your scent your lips sweet and your heat undoes me. I scramble out of my clothes newborn fawn You, languid, recline on the new couch, bemused by my eager desperation, beckon with but a look and I obey. But I can play too. Instead, I grab your arms, chest, touch caress, massage. Your eyelids flutter and you grin but otherwise give me free rein. I lick salt from your skin as the last rays fade on the ceiling. Only the lights of the city glow in the darkness. You push me down until the fabric of the couch imprints on my back Heavy, pinning me down, your kiss relentless, pressing as if we could merge and I become your sinew-grace perfection. Then, you enter and I hadn’t known you were naked. As if the sun had risen again, melting wax flesh into yours. In the small light, our eyes never leave each other for centuries and you straddle me spent our sweat soaking the air. Maximiliano You invite me to the gym you own, your second home, the racks of weights, more familiar to you than your own kitchen We spend one hour and twenty-two minutes focused on proprioception metal music the only sound between us. Words do not fall from your lips except in encouragement a correction of form you are otherwise as unyielding as your thighs. Once the last weight is back in its proper home, you suggest a juice place across the parking lot The word “No” hovers on my tongue, transformed to “Yes” when you offer me a smile. I cannot help watching your body move through space, hypnotic mesmer. They know your order I stare at the menu search for anything that won’t make me sick. We sit outside at the lone wobbling table under a weak sun blocked by clouds My words are parch-dry yours staccato, sparse Your body speaks and if I reach out, I can read your lips. Bradley Chill fall nights keep us in this stuffy dusty library on this old couch time forgot you studying theology me reading a story for class Two pumpkin spice lattes, long empty, sit on the table, that we snuck in behind the librarian. You yawn and stretch and I lean closer to your warmth wrap myself to your flushed cheeks and let myself relax for a moment studies forgotten, grades of no matter only your heat your touch to tether me to this world and your soft smile on my neck your whispered promise our life a mattress on the floor late-night library sessions your shifts at the Claim Jumper my shifts at Staters we dream of nothing more than this our heaven each other K. Andrew Turner writes queer literary and speculative fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. |