by Jesse Rice-Evans
after Rebecca Solnit
Men always have something to teach, a finger to lead everyone else somewhere, how we watch for balance, blink and break.
Just let me run towards you, a river of silence thank god for silence, without which I would cut away less, the cure for these duplicate mouth-sounds, the end I can almost taste as you gob and spittle, glinting wish and chrome, escape hatch looming closer.
When I say nothing, I mean I can’t stand it anymore, each singular kiss, copied.
I want the right one to win, to slip between the grate I cast between us, to slip redundancy in after hand over hand, your familiar way, you love an endless loom.
If you say you’d recognize me anywhere, prove it. I am coiled to cut, slick hiss my crowded teeth, something you can’t win, go on I’ll wait
Jesse Rice-Evans is a queer Southern writer and yarrow enthusiast. Read her work in Entropy, Heavy Feather Review, Reality Hands, and others. She’s a Ph.D. candidate at the CUNY Graduate Center in Rhetoric & Composition and she teaches writing in New York.