At Final Destination, 11:06 pm
My new country says drinks are cheap and I know what he wants.
Bartender folds her forefinger nine ninety
for two, about eleven dollars. Now my country’s
walking out and in the courtyard at least a hundred men
standing around shouting over music the jangle of Beijing
even hidden away, even at Destination. But I whisper
softly into his ear. Hold his hands wide. One
little kiss on each cheek or full on the mouth. Trace of my
L’Oréal. In the medieval poems he and she are not distinguished
and I see our faces everywhere, in a scroll’s landscape
left blank where the figure’s eyes fall, in a bowl
of half-eaten peaches, a cut sleeve, any sleeping body
turned away from view. In this corner of the end
three men gather around a fourth, face on
the ground mouth agape drooling sick
or is it pleasure—that scent of tobacco smog dirt—
Tell me what you want, night.
Stick to the wall like a damp cotton shirt. Tell me
what you want. I can talk fast or slow. I can recount
the first time we met, centuries ago, minutes ago.
I can stand still. I can recite to you any
law you want. I can say it
with passion, the end, listen, it sounds like absolutely nothing.
Copyright Credit: Julian Gewirtz, "At Final Destination, 11:06 pm" from Your Face My Flag. Copyright © 2022 by Julian Gewirtz. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Source: Your Face My Flag (Copper Canyon Press, 2022)