Adam Deutsch lives in San Diego, teaches college composition and writing, and has work recently or forthcoming in Poetry International, Thrush, Spinning Jenny, Ping Pong, and Typo. He has a chapbook from H_NGM_N Books called Carry On.
How hard the look at those stripes
on her skirt when she says
I can’t wear this. They’ll see right through.
I swear we stood still
and the planet moved
the floor and its dust.
It’s not for them.
Light bulbs gone dark
hang like plants who breathe darkness
through mechanical wind
on nights she’s gone—
that second job—you clean
for her return. You’re both workers:
so hard to unburden the other.
You lift your feet from the carpet
so you won’t shock her on the mouth.
You get so tired, man. Turn
into a pumpkin who loves so much
and a few times each night
when the neighbors ruckus,
your mouth finds the shoulder,
executes the most gentle collisions.