When I meet my unrequited lover, he is only looking for a fuck,
so I give him one in the back of a moving car, our bodies folding together
like compactable seats, his heart so hot against my fist
it could be a knot of light, a small ripe plum exploding into red juice
beneath my tongue. In June, I survive on his two texts
asking where we can meet up again for another one.
Today I nail the stars of his gaze into my palms like crosses,
bear their weight heavy upon my eyelids;
today he goes to see his girlfriend in Tucson
and takes her out for dinner at a five-star restaurant,
where they feed each other creme brulee by transferring the spoon
from one open mouth to another.
Dogs can pick up frequencies so low that the average human being
cannot hear them, signals so soft they could be whispers
that set off a round of frenzied barking around the block.
Tonight, I strap all my greed and longing to my torso
like a straitjacket and wear it pretty to bed,
where I conjure up his image, red-haired and lithe, stretched out somewhere
in a cold hotel room with his girlfriend, two pale bodies,
a pretzel of limbs-I pretend these hands are his hands,
touch every part I imagine him to be touching on her,
and wonder if he can detect me, pick up my frequency,
a puppy cocking one ear on a park bench.
If he can feel me, the two of us moving in unison,
connected in some obscure way like a string of coins
tossed into a fountain, the kind that turn into a wishing well
when poured down a loved one’s throat.