On the bus rides & embankments,
in the bars & pews.
Radiant, inaccessible angelic
longing for erasureable solace,
but to wipe the slate clean
requires measurement in ounces,
an exact requisition.
Floated on ice & permanent winter.
We nitelife, friend & fellow travelers.
Alone in this.
Small, small femme reliquaries,
smooth all corners and perfectly constructed.
I don’t understand she structures,
so much glass & smoke & light.
Men are cavernous, vast & unknowable.
They walk to the edge of town
and find slips of numbers,
ephemera stuffed in the mouth of a golem.
They comically cursed, a foothold in the underbelly.
They pleasure. Obscene.
I sit at the table, back to the door
a candle remnant malleable & newly dark.
Free, whatever the word means.
Social like a blade slipped between the scapula,
breathless. The lightcrawling curlicues off scalp
some blessed misinterpretation.
These people smell like “things”.
Throw a brick into the night
and listen for the bells.
Christina Continelli is a poet, fiction writer, and essayist living in San Diego, California. She is an alumnus of California College of the Arts MFA program in San Francisco. She has also performed spoken word throughout California, both on her own and as a member of Goatsong Poetry Conspiracy. Her work has appeared in Blast Furnace, Hobo Camp Review, Slice Magazine, How2, and Monday Night Lit.