art gallery orgy just hear me out.
I am thunder cracking, but so what?
The only other options were “roar of 100,000 Nets fans”
or “first grader’s boots scratching at the school bus floor.”
You got “lemon juiced by Rottweiler jaw,”
but that’s only because your mother was beautiful.
This is definitely a strike while it’s hot situation.
Today is the first day of Joe Biden’s presidency,
and I can think of nothing better to do than elaborate.
My boyfriend says he’s open to it if yours is,
and the art gallery on campus is labyrinthine in structure,
lots of room to act supine, inspire greatness
like spools of fish or just conjecture.
If you promise to sweat over me—and I do mean beads
by Rembrandt, hold my hand under circle circle, and square,
while our heels are still strapped like majorettes in Miró renditions of ourselves
replete with the essence of Palma—a long wind over short beach—
there’ll be nothing the boys can do to distract us from why were actually there,
or what we’re really interested in having follow us home.
You look better than a bust—I swear it, babe.
I see you all the time not even thinking it.
Sara Potocsny is a 26-year-old writer out of Syracuse, NY, where she lives with her son, Sol. She is currently an MFA Candidate in Creative Writing at Syracuse University, where she also teaches writing and sociology courses. She has one chapbook out called The Circle Room, published by Lover Books. Online she has work in Hobart, Radar, and others. She thanks you in advance for reading!