John Biscello

We were walking scarside,

had been for a long time.

The wind sounded like fading bells,

the air smelled of singed salt.

I asked her how her heart was holding up.

Good, she smiled, it’s floating jellyfishlike

in a pool of warm liquid.

That’s where I drown my ______________.

The way she spoke blanks, like concrete flatlines,

stopped me. And drew me closer to her void.

I always fell for and into women’s voids,

headfirst, heartfirst, groinfirst,

it was hard to tell the order.

But absence was a death’s-head elixir, a potion

made from pines, bones, and frozen bees.

I told her–Did you know

that the closer you get to a black hole

the slower time runs?

Is ……………… that ……………….. true ……………

she slo-moed her speech and movements, a dying reel

equal parts eerie and comical.

When she resumed regular speed, she kissed me

hard and quick, a hummingbird on high.

It was at the far edge of scarside

that she asked me–How is your heart doing?

I considered this, then responded,

My heart is _______________.

That’s where it’s most comfortable.

She smiled, I think savoring the jittery draft

of blankness, its throbbing drift,

then she stepped away

as I leaned into her void,

wanting.