The Threesome

I look at your spread legs
And pale bones curving up
In the four am light
Like dust.
And I imagine Mira’s mother
Who once told me how she slept
Face down in the pillows
Throughout the 1970s.

Your dedication to the moment
Seems the same
And it’s better because
I don’t know your name. Julie
Or Jennifer, or Gelareh.
He opens the bottle of beer with his teeth
Four hands. Come here.
We get started, like rain.

It’s January. I moved in yesterday
A temporary solution
Like this. We laugh
As I compliment your
Lies. And he slams you
Like a banshee
Or an office drawer
Is this working?

‘You seem reliable’
The Spanish student had told me, handing over the keys
‘I cleared the wardrobe. Except the coats’
Later I found: a wooden bead bracelet
An empty bottle of Dior Homme
Flight socks.
Six hands keep three mouths quiet
Like marble.

I protect these things more than I protect
Myself. Or you, or you
Those possessions. This threesome. So reliable
You climb over a photo of the Spanish girlfriend
Printed on a pillow
She’s topless. Smiling
Now we have a foursome, you say
Now we have a party

So let’s raise our bald bones
And think of Mira’s mother
Bury my face in it
Bury everything
Now we have a party

 

NJ Stallard is a writer and editor, based in Istanbul. Her recent work includes an essay on Turkish circumcision and an upcoming poem ‘I am the daughter of Jennifer Lopez’ in the next issue of Galavant.

@njstallard @tweenplath