Last night’s celebration spools knots in my chest.
As I sniff singed plastic, the rusted husk of discarded metal
is a monument in my femur. They wheel me into a motel parking lot
that gifts complementary condoms on the second night.
I am the lightweight they felled and fitted into their neighbour’s dumpster,
a slick measure to avoid a dead man turning statue of witness,
hauling anchor in a DEA office. You jingle keys on the sidewalk,
I envisage you distorted into something that doesn’t match my memory,
dealers thrumming your blood with feral thread.
But there is hope in this tension.
I hallucinate a woman howling
face down on a broken mirror. The lid lifts,
perfume slaloms overhead.
About the Author: Imran Khan teaches creative writing in Dorset. His work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in the Rumpus, Menacing Hedge, Juked, The Puritan and Rust and Moth. Khan is a previous winner of the Thomas Hardy Award. He can be found at: https://www.facebook.com/ImranBoeKhan