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Jason Salvant
I live with a couple who fucks all the time.
They tell me they’re going to meditate,
then I hear moans leaking from under the door.
I’m convinced they’ve fucked
on the couch, the table,
and the living room floor.
I see when they look into each other’s eyes.
It’s its own form of meditation.
Their surroundings dissolve into a space
with no place no sound no people.
The only remnant of reality is the tear
that rolls down the face
and onto the bed in orgasm.
When they inevitably marry,
I will throw them a wedding
for all of eternity
where they can stare into each other’s eyes
and say “I do”
over and over.
I could never tell you
Jason Salvant
You don’t know
that I took a shot
before we went on our first date. I wish
I had told you then.
Now it feels like a sin,
as much of a sin
as reading through your childhood diaries,
as rummaging through your underwear drawer.
Can you blame me
for getting into my own place
through the fire escape?
A good friend of mine once said
her heart is a house, and
she often has to spray WD-40 on the lock.
My heart is a studio apartment in Brooklyn,
with the bedroom in the kitchen
in the bathroom in the bedroom,
a drummer upstairs,
an old couple downstairs,
and opera singers on either side.
A week before our date,
I went to a Terrance Hayes reading.
He said a poem is a house too,
where the attic
holds the context and the basement
holds the subtext and the living room
holds the people and the kitchen
holds the imagery and the bathroom
holds the self and the bedroom
holds the dream.
So here’s the dream—
a 3000 square foot apartment in Central Park South with a penthouse, a guest bedroom, an extra half bath, central AC, enough room for a dog, enough room for you, enough room for me.
Jason Salvant is a writer and editor from New York. Like many writers, their work centers on time, love, and God. They recently learned their grandmother’s bread recipe and will not be sharing it.