by Gianni Skaragas
You had a thing for childless men,
I had a thing for fatherless women.
You could see the bottom of my glass,
I could look at the white flood of your headlights.
You took me in,
I tried to love you back to satiety.
We hold each other’s gaze in the night
the way people in porn movies sometimes do.
It’s the reverence of most strangers for the unexpected
after their eyes become accustomed to the gloom:
as if the definite shape of things were an achievement.