the right way
BY KARA CANDITO
No matter how often you talk to the night
the night will not tell you its secret name.
Mine is Lola. As I hum this, mosquitoes
hum my scalp, off-key. I can tell they believe
we can be, in the blood, anything we want,
but I want to be liked, as if I was a girl bent
over the hood in twentieth century floodlights.
Shut up and rotate the tires. Rare is the mechanic
who replaces your brake pads for free and then
castrates squirrels in the off-market quiet
of his own shed, said my father, the philosopher-
rat in a dream perfected by twentieth century ennui.
No matter how poorly you flirt with the tomatoes,
the tomatoes will blush, delicious and American
as the fear of not being fucked back the right way,
and though I’d be remiss to say what constitutes
the right way, it is all about atmosphere; up against
the fence, which is faceless; inside a swarm
of hands and genitals you can feel in the blood
where you are anything you want for five thrusts.
Before the garage door opens, I’d like to ride you again,
dear bicycle, if only to where I’ve already been.
