by Major Jackson
Five gold wash crystal pearls on a wrist.
Her seraph–skin glistening when a spigot is turned off
in the apartment next door, letting out
a rusty squeak. A tabby licks a paw.
An evening dinner of lightning in clouds, the sky’s release
of electrical surplus followed by Porchetta
with wilted greens tossed in Arbequina olive oil and lemon.
Layers of clothes topped by her sinamay straw derby hat.
A thin wisp of sheen above his brow.
Until all at once they voicelessly consume
the echoes of all their past.
Possible objects of high regard: stalactites dripping
in a cave, delicately carved tortoiseshell comb,
cambers of her body.