BY PAIGE QUIÑONES
Longing is an improper bit in the mouth.
You didn’t know the word in English,
so I explain: for horses, it’s nothing like when I put
my fingers in and grab your jaw and pull.
They’ve got this perfect empty space.
When you stand, naked, to grab a book or
a cigarette, I remind myself to memorize
your particular tilt. No man knows his end,
my father often says to me. It’s about dying,
but I hear: a lover can exit a doorway, a lover
can unwittingly click his teeth
against yours, the first filly to win the Derby
can be named Regret—mine is in the form
of hard muscle and foam.