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  • Writer's pictureLammergeier Staff

Aubade With Sex Chat | Nick Politan

What hours do you swaddle

in the keep of your spine,

buried with clean marrow

that, computer-glow-lover of mine,

you spread over my tongue this animal

abandon we share, so I lap at the green-eye’s tap

for your bitter jelly: stone fruit: pit

of my throat: find me there:

in the morning of your voice:

full on the other side of the world where

I know it is already morning.

You say you like my big shoulders and otherwise

ask how big, otherwise for a glimpse of my face,

but we both know here is a step too far:

for my face to see my face, the shadows cast

from clavicle to nipple to the prisons of a ribbed body

cribbed from an image, the image of a body

that I watch watch back: here

it is closest to real, where we are together watching ourselves.

You unfurl yourself for me, peel back

your billowing centers like clouds above

clouds above sky where you beg

me to come, come, come into this new altitude

and it is new for me, too, though more like depth,

more like beneath a thousand feet

of ocean water finding a lake: water beneath water,

the brine pool that begs headlong discovery,

where it is dark and pressures fatal, where words like

salinity mean something closer to toxic shock

than salt, where we barter disparate densities

and faith across a distance for undeniable aphrodisiac:

Who are you? How did you find me?

I will, tonight, hazard my face for you

before coming up for air.

Nick Politan works as a wine merchant in Brooklyn. Previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blazing Stadium, Figure 1, Sylvia, The Babel Tower Notice Board, Recliner, Landfill, Pipette, & Disgorgeouszine. He lives with his twin brother, Will.

Instagram: @nicholas_politan



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