w h e n
bo dy

wa s
g l a ss

t e rr a r iu m

:: vi ::
:: khi nao + jessica ::
:: alexander ::

The showerhead at 6AM  lulls
the blue room back to sleep. I rolled over at 6:15 and watched you wrap a towel around your head and you said good morning in your rough and sultry morning voice. In the breaks between the blinds I saw the night hang the damp & dusty clouds atop a block of square shaped lofts.
Back  when  I  feared  flying,  I’d  pretend
airplanes were giant sleighs, rushing, rushing over the endless expanse of arctic snow.

It  took  longer  on   the   drive to    Boulder
for     the     crisp     outline    of
mountains     to     come     into
focus.            Your voice was soft and
distant and
you read Craft in the
Real World
aloud until we grew bored of it.You wore a dark blue wrap-around dress with bell shaped sleeves and flower print. You wore a special skin-toned bra to cover up the scar bisecting your chest. At our apartment, I folded you likethe stem of a flower onto the bed. Your neck smelled salty & floral. You rested your left hand between your shoulder and right breast & caught your breath. You did this the first night we lay together in a bed and my body turned to you without moving.

My   travel time home     from Boulder
back     to     Denver    has         greatly
diminished,    in   hardship,     now   that
you    drive  to  campus  and collect
  me. Thanks  to  your   tenderness,   my
teaching    days are   no   longer  as  long
nor     as      oxygen-deprived.    Teaching
behind  a  mask  is  a little       dangerous.
Even     my   student,    Sam,      stops
breathing   when  reading  out
loud.   I  woke   early for   an    interview,
and  oval spots of light traveled
up and down  my face   like  a
diurnal     flashlight.      My  face
burst with luminosity like      bubble
wrap.    Most    Fridays, you    are   busy
with  Zoom meetings.      Your voice
echoes in our    loft-ish  abode
like    a  gramophone.    You   are
serious    and   friendly  and  I   fantasize;
I’d    like   to   do   something      sultry
make you     smile.    The  thawed
out    frozen    pork    I        sauteed in red
sauce    and salt   had a         hemoglobin
       aftertaste,       and even the cabbage
contained the iron relics of something murdered. There was nothing natural about the palette transaction.
Last  night,    my  body  hung  like  a
glass terrarium;  I felt     the soil of
your  fingers  beneath  me,   &
  the   water  of  my     orgasm
floating  in  between  each breath.
Everything in me was     suspended
— between   the elevation   of
your    tenderness     and   the
day’s vast longing.

Your    office   air   was   cool   and
came      through      the        open
window.  We   applied   for  jobs  in  a  glass
building   two stories  up  from   the  world  and
ate lunch outside   and I was  tired and
weary of the  college boys — who
barked   like   guard  dogs  at   the
girls  in  sunglasses  & bikini  tops.
When we walked across the green campus lawn & under the canopy of yellow leaves, I watched your profile against the lush trees, & students crowding the corners of the bright afternoon, feeding their hangovers with angus beef & grease, and I asked what you did for fun in college and you said you read poetry in your room. And now in your office you tell me you’d like to go back to school, in Switzerland.

Even  though  I  took  only    one  sip of 
the Bread and Butter wine
you bought, I woke feeling as if I had a hangover. We fought intensely last night with me saying many fucks. In the middle of the fight, you climbed out of bed. I could hear you in the darkness, putting on a t-shirt and pants. I could hear the sonic, crisp audio of you throwing things randomly and mindlessly into a bag and I could hear the teeth of the zipper grinding each other's molars as you zipped one bag up and began another. i suspected that you were preparing for a night stay at some random hotel. My heart quickened and I felt defeated. I began to prepare myself, my mind mainly, for a desolate night, my first night in Denver, alone without you. I thought how quickly it escalated — one moment you were in my arms and the next, you were like a young soldier who had just joined the military, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting to say his farewell and I was that pregnant wife with a three month fetus in my womb, wondering when you would return. The argument appeared surreal as a squid fight in the rain with sharp steak knives.

But your face and chest were blue
in  the  glowing   moon  and   your
tone softened  to the    tone  I love
and know and   so   I   did    not  want to go.

The dark clouds of our bodies
took  a  sharp  turn.   Sunlight
began filtering through    and we
fell    asleep   into   a   quiet,    resignated

In   the   afternoon     we walked to
the      Corner     for     shrimp
bowls.  We  waited  and      waited  for
our  food  to  arrive.  In the car ride  back
to Denver,  I read your  notes on
Paradise Lost.     Belial,    the
lusty  fallen  angel,  preferred
to exist than to not.   He said   if
they    (the   fallen   angels,   including
Satan)   irritate  God too  much, he
might   obliterate  them.   The  most
egregious     thing     they     could      do
(revenge-wise)  was    to   “disturb”
and     “alarm”     GOD,        but
otherwise, God is God. Belial suggested that "familiarity with the horror and darkness would lessen the pain of Hell.”
You drifted us out of the mountain sky, with the sunlight behind us, and I was thinking, Belial is so naive. Satan’s daughter, Sin, was born out of his head precocial — meaning full grown. And, he raped her. And, when he raped her, she gave birth to Death, their son. And, their son, Death, inspired by his father’s genetic gene pool of rape, raped his mother, Sin. Back then, you said, people didn’t know how to fuck. There were limited orifices. And, they only knew how to rape. Mary was a victim of such. It was a huge inconvenience for her, you said. And, I laughed as you pulled us into the front parking lot of Blueground. Later, you read a boring flash fiction from a boring flash fiction book, and I learned you love to eat muffins and drink coffee in the parking lot of expensive pharmacies while I pack books & ship them back to 11:11 Press.