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.