Into the Teeth of the Wind

Jillian Weise

Introductions

After we’ve introduced ourselves
with gin and tonic and jazz,
a woman asks to read our palms,
and we decide that we are worth
at least one night together.

In your bed without sheets,
in your room with blank walls,
and cobb-webbed windows, a green
light bulb shines and reminds you
of the ocean.

You tell me about your house
catching fire, your parents dying
while you gambled in Las Vegas.
I tell you about airport alarms set off
by metal rods in my back

You trace the scar along my spine
and I imagine what it must feel like.
We determine the arrangement of parts,
hip bones and shoulders, your Adam’s
apple to my nose.

We decide all of this without speaking.