I’m not just white. I’m hyper-white.
December skin shining like moonlight
in a dark room. Luz pats the bedspread
around my body and laughs, pretending
she can’t see me.
Outside of Cubbyhole, we smoked in the rain.
Each of us on cell phones asking why we came
on couples night. So we met on that intersection
of West 4th and West 8th that shouldn’t exist,
where the alignment of the new grid failed.
Perhaps this was the sign I railed against, walking
back into that packed bar with her, as we talked
beneath the kaleidoscope ceiling.
Six vodka tonics later and we peel
off our clothes in the back seat of her car.
She tells me her name’s not really Lucy.
No worries, I’m always Alice when I go to bars.
Then she kissed me into the plush upholstery.
Does my age scare you? She rolls onto her back,
hell no, I was twenty yesterday, she laughs.
Actually, she was old enough to run away
from home before I could crawl or say
anything. Sixteen years separating us.
I feel like you’ve been through shit and I can trust you,
age is just a number. I love her.
Her bleach-blond hair like noon-light in summer.
Morocco, Madrid, San Cristobal, Barcelona,
Delta takes her everywhere in her tight skirt
uniform. We decide, when she flies and I’m alone
I’m allowed other women. But unbuttoning their shirts
in dark rooms, I find myself waiting for morning.