Christine Gosnay’s poetry appears in recent issues of DIAGRAM, The Squaw Valley Review, THRUSH Poetry Journal, [PANK], Beecher’s Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in California and edits The Cossack Review. “Burmese Days” is from a series titled “Mistakes in Dreams.”
He told me when I drank from his favorite glass it felt just like I was tweezing the lilies out of their new-sewn bed. Pinching the bulbs out from under the blankets of clay and holding them, still wet, turning them into oysters in my hands, slurping them up, things I couldn’t even digest. He said I might as well have come into his bed and ripped the pillows until they were blizzards. He said, If I were a skunk you would de-scent me, clear my chambers of ammunition. He said, Look into my eyes and see the film you have left by dipping your fingers into me and easing them back out again, look how they are not the same. By now the glass had left a ring on everything it touched and the water trickled down the sides, down my neck, and I asked him if there were something else to us than keeping, if we must go on applying balms and lotions to our bodies the way monks apply gold leaf to the temples in Burma, when he stopped me. He had no patience for something so far away.