Saturday, June 18


I want to
eat oil-slick nigiri
strips of fat-ribboned pink flesh
and sharp knives of wasabi
lashed to each perfect pale grain

brought to my greedy red mouth
with manicured fingernails

gleaming bloody
under dark-bright neon,
alone in a country
you will never see.

I want to
love you in languages
long dead or tongue-tying
cruel and remote,
like you,

so far away and unreal.