tether - iii Every night feels exactly the same but in between breaths there are shifts, pulls of universe fabric where little stitches and embroidered flowers come loose and fray. Within these I toss and turn. At night when time expands and contracts like a lung the hours run past me too quickly or too slowly, depending on the milliseconds and how they sort themselves. Sometimes the moon is too bright through my window. (I'm never going to put up curtains.) I twist like a sardine in a net, floundering after something unreachable, can’t stop thinking about her fingers down my spine and inner thighs, flurried and breathless. Over mountains and prairies she calls to me, in a voice like a gunshot. I let the moon burn holes through my eyeballs and around five o’clock in the morning my entire body gets up and leaves through the window.
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Maya Linsley
