There’s a crack in his ceiling shaped like Texas
By Luís Costa

and I wonder if he knows
I am broken too.
He kisses my thighs
and I feel nothing.
I lie.
I long
for you.
But what is the point
of saying such things
when someone’s mouth
is so close.
I shut my eyes
and have a cemetery
picnic. Let’s say it’s Austin,
blistering.
It’s nice to escape anyway.
Gaze at dancing
bluebonnets
that move toward me
as you once did.
The point is: had I looked
into his eyes I wouldn’t have seen
the plaster
open. When he moans
I hope it collapses.
I wish it would bury this bed
and everything in it
I’ll never tell him. Save us
both the trouble
of possibility.
He licks my waist
and I want to be swallowed
by the Colorado river.
Let it drown
all the things
we never were.
You and I, yes,
who also went from miles
to inches. The paper made
our mountains flat.
I think of maps, he thinks of me,
one of us always lies.
I wait to be draped
in debris.
I know you would
never believe
it. And I don’t blame
you. Our world
is a projection,
scales are so deceiving.