The bed is hot. I hold two twigs beneath my pillow
and think of him star drunk in a pasture, popping Advil
and whiskey, saddled on his motorbike glowing
like a green knife. I snap the twigs in four to stow
away for later. He sends a photo he took pine logging
out of town: the mangled strawberry corpse of a dog
whose head he chopped. He texts [these broken acts will fetter
me, it’ll take my head to fashion debtless debt]
Green nights like these I feel much like a decapitated
body, hands searching the dirt for my face near twigs and three
-ply sheets I text [gawain, i dreamt we were new-tongued]
Much, much later, he sings outside as I’m falling through
the hours, dewdrop skin and tooth, with heavy naked
breath. He knocks. What music do our voices make?
He enters gripping an axe, then toes his shoes off standing
wide, grin white, the dripping canine head in hand.
I say [Put those in the fridge] He does, all sore and heady,
wrapping an arm around my ribcage as he sinks in bed.
He moves his lips on mine like a burning house caving
in. My nails thumb drum on his cymbal heart [Okay,
I hate you] He finds the twigs and builds an emerald fire
between our breath. The folds of shadow burn, nightshy.
This glacial stream falls downward into ice trapped pools, a blank
white canvas unmarred by touch and even further down the blank
sting of water spills in sheets of blue. This winter is a pale
fanged bat that screams and screams to fill in its nightly sheer-eyed blank.
I lie in the backseat while you drive, hands changing radio stations,
still cold from touching January ice. The first song is blank
space, though static warped. When you sing nothing comes out except
a burst of breath and rotten notes, the air all warm and blank
of conversation. Will we find a noise that’s worth the effort
needed to keep on speaking? Answers are means of filling in blanks
until we die. I hope when future people unearth me I’m cold
enough that I look entirely the same and my tombstone’s rubbed blank
of my name. What was that stupid thing I was never meant to say?
Whenever I try to think, all I get is [ __ ] and [ __ ] and [ __ ].
Ryan Aghamohammadi is an Iranian-American poet, essayist, and occasional psychic from Connecticut. He has work forthcoming in Bear Review. When not writing, Ryan is pursuing a degree from the Johns Hopkins University.