A Letter To My Brother


Or in Lisbon, North Dakota,
where my lesbian was
chasing yours with a tuning fork

I could’ve sworn it
was snowing. I had taken
her in the bathroom that morning.

It was the only room
in the whole state
with any heating whatsoever.

“Did you know Francis
Ford Coppola makes
his own wine?” she asked me.

I said nothing. I was deep
up her ass at this point
and wasn’t going to

come anytime soon. Not
like this. I rubbed her rubbery
breasts to keep myself warm.

“Apparently, it’s terrible,”
she added with a touch
of pride, as though she was

running a competing vineyard
whose wine was the blood of poor Francis —
godfather and saint.


Later that night in the parking lot
when my lesbian slipped on the
black ice and fell, striking

her belly and tuning fork all
against the uneven pavement —
stopping short her dyke-prey-friend

in her petite dyke-tracks —
my motor gasped out a
final ecstatic roar

collapsing in concert
with her fall. And she only
let out a little apple sigh.

We coughed broken
cold laughs beside her. Even
the little dyke looked unusually

capable of processing joy.
The car would be dead forever.
We ran back to the motel naked

in one of those non-literal nightscapes
that half-beats and bleeds
blue and yellow gas.


Their crank was always rigid. Like a
step backwards into a sunny kitchen.
All light and linoleum — a shock of a sort.

I was taking your Propecia for the
fun of it then. And I was watching yours
bathe herself, when she wasn’t looking.

And sometimes I would touch myself.
Until one day, she would see me.
And throwing back her head

her mouth began to scream,
and I didn’t reach to shove the soap
down her soft contracting throat.