We’ll begin at the end —

move backwards toward the flickering light

that catches our skin like a spark.

I’ll call all men sweethearts

as their slim suits speed towards me through time. 
I’ll wear furs and smoke long cigarettes

and you’ll snap your thin suspenders

when you’re pleased with yourself,

swing your coat over your left shoulder

like a baseball bat. 
I’ll speak from an octave lower in my throat,

sing a bluesy note from time to time,

kiss the air around your head

as if everything about you

is a soft place to land. 
You’ll be tough and unwavering —

like the shadow of a stone, 
but no matter the bind it puts you in,

it won’t take long for you to turn

towards my legs as if

they were long strands of rope. 
Just for tonight,

we won’t care who done it,

or wonder how we’ve arrived 
at the edge of the pool,

looking down at the body

floating as bodies do in old movies,

or wonder which of us did this,

or which of us is already dead. 

    Kim Kent is our poet in Residence for October.


    Previously: See you Later, Grapefruit.