Birkensnake 1

enter us. attic apartment. mid-august’s knitted heat. with curtains drawn, i fucked you on the kitchen floor while the cat watched from an open cabinet. afterwards, still enmeshed, you said that was nice. outside, the stars shined. two days later you moved in. the cat began licking her paws bald, coughed up skinballs. by the time my sister visited for thanksgiving, we’d wrapped them in gauze. sarah asked why don’t you make her stop?

*

the gas station i bought cigarettes from was owned & operated by a middle-aged hungarian who gave me free lighters, patted my head on several occasions you look like my daughter. i mean you look exhausted.

at night, we’d drive to chevron’s empty parking lot. a flask, glazed doughnut between us. sprawled on the hood of my honda, you’d say at this moment there is no one thinking of us. turning my face away, skyward, i found the moon snarling down at me. i stared slack-jawed as if it was a shock. 4am’s dry wind. thinking you were speaking, or even laughing, only to look & see you pissing into an empty schlitz can.

*

the first time my mother met you, she hissed he smells like cigarettes. since when did you get so thin? at hunan village, the waitress had tiny hands. i stared amazed, her ability to fit all five fingers in the teapot’s handle. my mother burned her tongue on won ton soup & for the remainder of the meal bitched now i can’t taste a single thing. she bit her egg roll, sloshed it round her mouth nothing! you took ten bathroom breaks. while you pissed, she asked are you even showering? my fortune cookie read you have a fine capacity for enjoying life.

*

on christmas we drove 456 miles to sit on a wet park bench. our stomachs ached from spinach quiche, the ninety-eight hour day of playing scrabble at my parents’ house. we’d left at dusk. arrived home to a city snuffed of light, sound. at the park, beneath a shade tree, i peeled a tangerine, put three slices in our bottle of cruzan. unzipping your jacket, you heaved look at this sweat! i threw up off the side of the bench. my vomit melted the frost.

*

our running joke concerned the hangover hotel. room 101: dirty sheets, HUGE sink. we’d laugh too loud, prop our feet on a coffee table, laugh again.

at a bar on 10th street, i shared seven pitchers with four friends from a time when i was unkind; in my swagger suit i waltzed through rooms don’t worry if he wants anal; you wont know him in a month. between the sixth & seventh pitcher, alicia slapped my knee, teased remember the time you held marco’s face in your hands, slurred ‘your positive disposition wont get you anywhere.’ & brie — god, you didn’t even drink then.

on west ponce we took dxm. i woke the next morning with my scarf stuck to the snow. attempting to stand, i collapsed. without wallet, watch, cellphone, i was stranded shivering till sunset when, at last, i could walk.

at the apartment i found you slumped on the front porch, head in your hands, listening to my fourth-grade walkman. where the fuck have you been? room 101.

*

in february i turned twenty. to celebrate we drove to griffin to eat cheap mexican & bicker with my parents. dousing his chimichangas in mango salsa, my dad said you live in a dream & one day you will wake, realize you are no different than the rest of us. you touched me between the legs then. later that night we fucked in the computer chair.

*

the landlord said i will not replace the heater till you clean. a brown mold had spread from the bathroom to the hall, all other rooms. also, roaches. crawling ‘cross the floorboards, fucking in half-eaten boxes of triscuits. at first our filth had amused. games of stacking glasses, plates in the sink, wondering when they’d crash into a chaos of glass. when we finally cleaned, we produced twenty-eight bags of cat fur, bottles, penciled paper. on new years eve i sat in the middle of the living room startled by how much space the apartment actually contained. how much space exists in the first place.

*

the month i lost my orgasm marked the beginning of the end. march, the crocuses bloomed too soon, died a week later in the rain. it was saturday, maybe sunday. we tacked a sheet over the window to block the sun. we tried everything — legs bent, sandalwood incense, a record with heavy drumbeat. nothing. when the futon broke, you asked for the last time how does that feel? it doesn’t.

*

rain. a constant stream for a month or so it seemed. the roof leaked. we spread pans across the floor, knocked them over. the floor flooded. we wore shoes, even in bed.

*

just fucking do it already. you were pissed about the litter box. the cat shit on your shirts. she’s gonna get sick. scrubbing a plaid button-down, you shouted well, if i clean it then she’s my cat. & you aren’t allowed to pet her anymore! i stayed out all night again, changed the litter box as an apology. whenever tim or tony called cookout, come? you sulked; i did the dishes.

*

to put myself to sleep i’d relive the days when you wrote me from montana. at the time you lived on a cattle ranch owned by your girlfriend’s father. in the letters you lamented everything’s obliterated by the fucking space of this place. when you weren’t complaining, you wrote about fucking me. the sex was sentimental. i want to sleep, wake inside you. i stopped asking when you were going to visit. there are limits even for the lonely. three months later i bought you a bus ticket.

*

when i asked you to leave, you refused. i pay rent here too! you moved into the kitchen, became the model roommate — sweeping floors, unclogging the drain, tacking notes to my door feed the cat, do the dishes, stop being a cunt.

underage, i stood outside decatur package store for ten minutes coercing a middle-aged man in a support our troops! cap to buy me a bottle of bombay. i had a cold. the gin passed through my mouth without taste. i drank almost half the bottle sitting on my bed, staring out the window. the sky white with lightning. when you opened the door i thought it was thunder. i rolled over, stuffed my head into a pillow or. i couldn’t distinguish between surfaces: the sheets, wall, your hands. after that night i dreamt you were fucking me while i slept. worst were the dreams where you fucked me & i came. when confronted, you said yeah okay, but not like it matters anyway. not like we haven’t done it before. i threw up; you held my hair.

*

the honda wheezed, rolled forward, fell silent. i’d left you sleeping with the cat curled at your feet. stumbling from the car, i lifted the hood, as if i could locate the problem, fix it. i called tim to pick me up. i stayed at his house five months. we fucked for six. when you’d call at 2am from your new girlfriend’s spilt shiraz on the sheets; miss you like a motherfucker tim would shout why do you still call that cunt? i’d shrug he calls me. but in the quiet moments of sneaking outside to smoke while tim read a book or took a shit, i dialed you. & still do. hi hello. how’s texas? you say i miss us.