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All week I’ve been drinking in the morning
instead of reading the news.
Now a pretty shorthaired girl says
we’ll be bombing Libya by tomorrow—
but tonight there’s a rumor of fireworks,
and a burly blond’s chosen my waist
to wrap a bulging arm around.
He’s a tank of a man,
with thick, callused fingers
that could kill or cover, depending
on his mood or mission.
Soon we’re on to the other room,
to whiskey warm and neat
and another sloppy rock band from Nashville,
all of which makes me feel so
Sipping something strong
from the cup he’s passed me,
I imagine what I can’t imagine:
he can’t die without having kissed me,
so I arch and swoon in his arms
like a girl in a black-and-white photograph.
His palm huge in the small of my back,
I kiss him goodbye all night.
Jameson Fitzpatrick is an editorial assistant at Barrow Street magazine and a poetry editor for LambdaLiterary.org. He lives in New York.