stopgap burning haibun
Inside your chest there is a room that’s just for warmth, another just for fingers. Jellies molded into sex shapes, shaking glorious. Eyes are dripping wax down your skin. You are sitting so gingerly, talking about the things you love to drink that taste like dirt, the way you could have been a prism with the light shining through. You are breathing: parliament menthol. Your nipple shares expression with your face: you’ve never used clippers before (aesthetical). Your ass shares coloring with an apple: you’ve never been bruised before (purposeful). Your cells mitochondrial castanets: clapping Chappell (cadenced). Whites are redding, purpling. There are corridors, there are stairwells, there are chanterelles for dinner and watermelon for lunch. You always get to the rind too soon.
Inside your chest there is a that’s just for warmth, another just for fingers.
into sex shapes, shaking glorious. Eyes are dripping wax your. sitting so
gingerly,t,alking about the things you love to drink that taste like dirt,been a
prism with the light shining through. parliament menthol. Your nipple
shares expression with your face: cyou’ve lippers before (aesthetical). Your
ass shares coloring with an apple: you’ve before (purposeful). Your cells
castanetsl (cadenced). Whites are redding, purpling. There are corridors,
thrstairwells, are chanterelles for. aYoulway get to the rind t sn.
intoshaking dripping waxgingerly, talking
you love to dirt, the way you co(aesthetical).
(). cellsr(ca edding, corridors, are the rind n.
Ode to The Low
No one’s boyfriend’s band is invited to play live, and that goes double if he plays
the guitar. Inside it’s warm, not too well-lit, wood-paneled, zhuzhed up by christmas
lights year round. 90s r&b bumps and grinds juicy bass through root chakra banging on
the dance floor, surrounded by tables and chairs that don’t stick to your miniskirt
thighs. It smells like sawdust, sweat, a hint of spiced black tea. Through the screen find
the garden bursting out with laughter, jasmine, rose geranium. Heat in winter, misters
in summer, shades for rain and sun, fairy twinkle lights climb periwinkle flowered trellises amid
squishy cushioned wicker. A touch of wildness thrown in by firepits for those long, clear,
dark blue nights in winter when the stars come out. Free library plump with poetry
journals, anarchist histories, dog-eared copies of fucking trans women by Mira Bellwether. Oh
and a treehouse built in a sturdy catalpa, raining beans and orchid flowers, leaves long
as a forearm make private nests for those who would get cozy. Hydration is having
a moment at the bar: crunchy cucumber water, an array of herby syrups for latte or soda (add
liquor of your choice to curate hyperlocal cocktail), session IPAs and cheap italian
red wine, a carafe of hot water and glass jars of dried flowers so you can make
a tea. Glassware is green sturdy stemless, the ice mineral, not bleachy. Safety shelf
stocked with narcan, liquid IV, mutual aid fliers. An array of prophylactics rivals
a mid-90s abortion clinic with its bounty of barriers, litany of lubricants. All-gender
bathrooms bloom with free tampons, floor to ceiling doors, those paper towels textured
like linen to dry hands, face, splashed drinks, spilled tears. Vanity with velvet cushioned
ottomans, botanical face mists, wintergreen gum and Altoids so the bisexuals don’t
have to choose, mirror lights bright enough to see if you need a touch
up but not so unforgiving that you have to run home to moisturize. When you’re ready to go
at the end of the night, you don’t need a ride. Look around. There’s no queer bar in town.
Allegra Wilson is a writer living in Northern California. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Inflectionist Review, and BRAWL.
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