in touring broadway,
it’s called a swing, but
when i do it, it’s just faking
or molting my skin so much
it’s not cool anymore.
two palms pressed to the perfect
circles of dried blood on
asks did it hurt
says only when you press
into it like that
see each other in whole foods:
feel something next to
the steaming pan of chicken wing
varietals. a telling shame
i didn’t want you to think of me
as a person bent under the sneeze guard.
i am tired of every diaphanous thing
twisting in heaven in queerface
a gay wind
how long have we been together,
me and this sheer slip of sheeting
flexed onto the shape of invisible?
man as pink foam rising up the side?
in paranormal activity 4, its a jump-scare:
the sheet falling to the floor
thick nothing vanished
just the smell of ozone
i would call you a friend
as easily as i would call you
a voice through the floor
a feeling at the laundromat
like all our clothes are touching.
zach blackwood is a poet and performance curator in philadelphia, pa. he is the author of SEXY UNIQUE HOLLOW POINT forthcoming from glo worm press in summer 2019. he has poems published in peach mag, occulum, bedfellows magazine, maudlin house, and elsewhere. he lives with a rotisserie angel of a dog named pig and is available on the world wide web @blackwhom