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.