by Kat Giordano
somewhere, still
there’s a photo of me
face-down on his bed,
bloated, drunk,
and cooking in his dorm light
like a hot dog.
at 19, there was no time
for composition. it was a risk
to linger, to let something
catch the light. you could see
his shadow staining
my too-blue cotton panties
and a weird edge
where the lace tore in the wash.
his look of admiration
as i posed nearly-naked
on the blue striped sheets,
grease-slick bangs in his eyes
as he knelt between my knees,
tilt-shifting on an ingrown.
it had to do with sex,
but only barely.
it was a friendship, filtered
through the pot-haze
of a tuesday night in erie,
snow piled too high to walk,
or drive, or think about things
like longevity, or if you maybe
loved each other. same way
i’d rock on his lap play-fighting
in the dead afternoon
and we’d treat it like kids
just fucking around. otherwise
we’d have to get some air.
we’d have to put our coats on.
about the author
kat giordano was born in philadelphia and it's been downhill ever since. they are the author of two poetry collections, the poetry confronts bukowski's ghost and tell me you've earned it, and one novel, the fountain. kat also works as the guest managing editor of thirty west publishing house. you can find them pretty much everywhere as @giordkat or on their website at katgiordano.com