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Election Night at the Stud

On the dance floor,
               my fingertip traces his infinity tattoo

and I wish more things were uncountable,
                            although cruelty is also endless.

Steeped in mimosa light,
               a queen takes the stage, beard glitter-dipped,

lip syncs “Let the Sunshine In”
                            a song I never realized was about heartbreak.

The song’s relentless, sunlit refrain can’t save us.
                 In a poster over the bar,

Warhol Marilyn scans the room
                             through anti-freeze eyeshadow;

the guys look like they’re
                                            somewhere else, too.



Pulling on his jeans, he notices
               my nightstand icon of the Virgin,

an open bottle of poppers
                             at her feet.

There’s something forgettable
                about both their faces.

He doesn’t want to know
                            what omens feel like; angels should

just scatter when you’re done risking.
              Talisman propped against a lamp,

it was something I bought
                              for later in life.

Against his wishes, I kept the lights on
                so I could see ahead into our story.


image: Christian Gullette