Cassandra Troyan

I Was Going Down On You, But The Birds Were Just Coming Up

The awkward alterity,
animated in bloat
as a Russian woman turns heads
in the café. She is leaning
in and spraying
another woman.
She is

I wish I would have let myself lean and let go,
feel that same warm subtle foam,
when we were
caught in the
bathroom making out
confused, the visibly
distraught freshman
alarmed by two women
pressed against the full-length
mirrors, which were asking for
a body to
validate their form.

How your promise to fuck me
but refusing to fuck my life
was most endearing in its hope,
as if fucking me,
and the fuckedness of
my life are not
somehow intertwined
I complied.


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