The droning has returned: killer wasps, lawn mowers,
the din of someone else’s yard party and the contagious
yawning that accompanies everyone falling in and out
of love. Spring, I guess, and Rikka said it is funny how
at the first sight of bare skin we all turn into bonobos.
I remove my shirt and worry a burn. Wait for a man
to arrive and cup my ass with his hands. It is a loving
gesture. Maybe just one that I love. I mean a specific
man, choose an ambiguous article. I feel safer this way.
It is just a feeling, though, like knowing that my seat
cushion turns into a flotation device. Whoever needs it
is already pretty seriously fucked. But I still want him
to sit atop my bed on a Thursday afternoon. Tip scotch
between my lips while the refrigerator repairman grunts
on his haunches in the next room. Even the appliances
are done with being good now, blowing only hot breath
over the lettuces: Bibb or Boston, the city I left without
a great deal of affection. When I return there, I feel held
in the mouth of a larger animal, the noise of the world
muzzled by a heavy tongue. Wet walls of bitten cheek.


Caylin Capra-Thomas is the author of a chapbook, The Marilyn Letters, (dancing girl press 2013) and her poems can be found in journals such as Sixth Finch, Phoebe, alice blue review, The Boiler, Permafrost, and Yemassee. She lives in Missoula, Montana, where she's pursuing an MFA and serving as a poetry editor for CutBank.