I rescued her after awhile,
this darling living in my asylum.
Even the blackest hole
can feel love,
There are instructions in her bones,
how to build me, how to demolish.
She is thymine hard
she don’t react well
with other elements.
The cheek of her ass is in my shirt
and her lower back tells stories
of good morning newscasts:
cloudy with a chance of lavender;
traffic on the 108.
Mornings are the worst
but her legs ain’t,
not in my kitchen.
Her gaze fits around me twice
like rotations of the sun
while she makes me food
and asks if I’m celebrating Lent.
I tell her I’m not a Christian.
She fucks up breakfast
and sits in my lap,
gorging on the skepticism
down my chin.
Moon deathrops out of sky,
outside’s the coldest it's been
We were on the news that night,
looking like a loving couple
and it was magic, sparklers and booze.
She remembers fourth o’fireworks,
chinese pagodas, jars of wine
and I remember her,
the poise of her mouth before the boom,
but this ain’t a holiday; this is downtown
and we’re December babes now.
Smog wears the glint of midnight
and sticks parade as trees,
bouquets of buildings are flanked
by roof rats and panhandlers
are asking for a dollar fifty.
She cleans up misty bottles
lined around her eyes because
she hates crying in public.
She hates me like a lawyer,
like the winter and the night.
She lights a cigarette to cloud
her PBR dreams.
We drink. Not to us.
But to something more grand.
Anastasia Jill is a queer writer living in the South. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fiction Anthology and has been featured with Poets.org, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, apt, Anomaly Literary Journal, 2River, Gertrude Press, Minola Review, and more.