dropped into the tv static
of being prey, i say i'll
stay right here. staying
afloat means knowing
how far down you could
go, means something
besides buoyancy
forcing you up. i don't
mean death, even—it's
not that he would unrope,
coil-clench his body
around my throat. if
he stays long enough
you can dip in and
back out of the vibrating
unthink: a hand into, out
of, wax. i don't mean
death anymore, i'm sure.
more how he hung, heavy
off the shoulders that
brought him here, a
septum-pierced girl
crooking a finger to
slide along his side,
the reaction in his
skin. i mean how he
hung, heavy in the
room long after he left.
Laura Brun is a poet from small-town Kentucky who lives and writes in Pittsburgh. Her work is found or forthcoming in Booth, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The Pinch, Selfish, and others. You can find more about her at lauranbrun.blogspot.com