recipe for an intimate party / another pandemicon poem

Recipe For An Intimate Party

(part icicle
part hair
one part liquor
part of growing up)

(part animal
part of speech
part of a crew
becoming a part
of pouring out)

It’s not a race
it’s not about you
it’s about flesh’s dip and eclipse of limbs
and sweet slices of clamorous apples
and where you are.

Unless you’re nowhere,
stalled in the stairwell,
a slow learner
with fruitless heartfelt ideas of a
platonic lockpick /
nickname confidante,
distant recall of
innate consonance /
crisis sister /
crush nexus /
skin epiphany,
honestly I’d love an egg cream.

Add: this was my cousin,
this was my blood,
this was committed to memory,
this I could recite by heart,
this was what I did,
this I can’t remember how that was made.

Salt to taste, chill. Muddle, stir.
Split up and serve.
In a crowdscene smoky attic
your heart beats on my back.
It’s the little touches.

In no time the whole night
falls down the stairs
all lost/hot behavior,
sense of smell shot to hell.

Overcoming absence
with pretty poor decisions,
swaying side to side.

More poems, recent and recomposed, here, here, here.

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