Wipe left; swipe right. Moist promises on tap.
I sit, knees drawn up. The dark is quiet,
my screen a window to another room.
Thick black hair, chocolate orbs, fill the room.
I search for your tanned skin and beard. I tap
keyboard hot key. Not you. Faces quiet.
Obsession hums—buzzes, tears up the quiet
dark walls. Shield shame; break into my room.
Swipe right on a close match, a vein to tap.
Lover, tap the window of my quiet room.
Born or remade
out of fertile clay
of the coastal lowlands,
out of stagnant clay,
in squelchy corridors.
Shadows shudder and reshape
in the girl’s doorway—a clay figure
fired up, made hard
Gaping holes for eyes,
filled to the brim with liquor,
seeping through the shell,
stains showing on the outside.
She grasps for the swooping beam,
the lighthouse that guards her shore.
But the light fails.
out of a vessel
into a vessel,
until hairline cracks
soil her mortar.
Another shore, across the strait,
her only escape,
where bygone lanterns
light rocky corridors,
where she becomes
Mary or Rebecca.