I want an MRI of your dick
inside me. I want to print out
each layer full-size on a sheet
and hang them end-to-end
on a corkboard beside us
to study, my leg hoisted
over your shoulder. I want
our heat on paper,
a professional sketch
of the closest I’ll ever get
to being your skin, but even that
won’t be perfect, that fuzzy outline
of your cock like a UFO
or Loch Ness monster sighting.

The longer this goes on, the likelier
it seems I made you up, your hot flesh
a mist in my hands, like
I’ll slide my boot up your thigh
in a restaurant and find only
the leg of the chair, or my toes
will miss your mouth, slip through
some crack in the universe
never to be seen again.

When I first made half-moons
in the wet clay of your back
I wanted to stop everything,
peel out of the shot like a kid
in an anti-drug PSA, like
“Hey guys, do you believe
this shit?!” Because lately,
when I’m not ruined by you
I dream of quitting poetry
to pursue a new career
as a sports commentator.
I’d devote my life to drawing
circles and lines on freeze-frames
of you nailing me with your socks on
at 6 AM, seeking trap doors in the angle
of the dawn shadows on your cheeks,
like this shit is the Super Bowl,
like this shit is the moon landing,
because it might as well be.




Kat Giordano is a poet and massive crybaby in Pittsburgh, PA. Her poems have appeared in Maudlin House, OCCULUM, Indigent Press, The Cincinnati Review, and others. They have also been known to show up trembling on people’s doorsteps in the middle of the night, too traumatized to explain what they’ve seen. She is one of two editors of Philosophical Idiot and can usually be found overindulging in her shoddy mental health on Twitter at @giordkat. Her debut full-length collection, The Poet Confronts Bukowski’s Ghost, is due out in summer 2018.

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