Without shaking, her hips, newly without, ash where a fire never was, burned. I:
the last part of the earth that meets the sky, dizzied. I: patron saint of public
restroom walls and exploding white masks, pegs and nude paintings, the swells of
a guitar pick streaming gang signs and broken Coke bottles. I: the circulatory
system of subways slept in, our clumsy stealing. I: a set-list, a scrap of notebook
paper blown into the world, into and into, the way I tumbled into her clean
mouth and couldn’t find my way back out, back to where I held her, still,
unraveling in my arms like a therapy session, a depression like teething, cop
voices. She swallows hard and I am almost there. It is almost like kissing.
67 The Paris-American
Corey Zeller is the author of Man vs. Sky (YesYes Books, 2013). His work has appeared in the Kenyon Review, Mid-American Review, The Colorado Review, Diagram, Puerto del Sol, Salt Hill, West Branch, The Literary Review, New York Tyrant, Chorus (MTV Books), among others. He currently serves as an associate editor at Mud Luscious Press and a social media wrangler for H_NGM_N BOOKS.
