radiance like a turnstile in a subway station
changing with each revolution your face and hands
on my breast the light slow and long then
dim and vibrating like electricity in
1950s movies when wires touch
and spark the air that fills spaces and time between.
remarkably the cat rubs my leg and sparks of
static, a bellow of light
emitted. I, seated uncomfortably
in a high back yellow arm chair that smothers
my thighs that sweats my knees as
I talk aloud to the night.
fallow thoughts unburden my justification;
arms sway honest past my denim bookends
you call thighs. Around you wrapped like a fur
unstained and unnoticed warm
and welcome, tight, embroidered on your hips
and back; prickly 3-days of stubble ignite sparks
but only in my head and in the night that is so
rarely noticed these days.
where Native Americans in tepees turn sticks inside
their palms, masturbating the wooden points
embed themselves with lust and fury,
turning turning past the one side then
the other and circles heaved into space when
shadows fleck apart and orange dewdrops, sparks of
fire fall up, spurt, let loose, free to meet the brush below
for the sake of mush and the history that follows.
Lisa Kusel 