in my dream I take your hands and you turn into a velociraptor
by Abigail Raley
The funny thing is, just moments
ago, we were so close to fucking.
We were seconds away from
commingling our galaxies
or whatever. I suppose some would
argue that I’m not closer to you
anyway, since I’m only fucking
my idea of your toothpaste tongue,
your eyes grubby in the morning
before your apparent transformation
into bipedal reptile, but those people
are boring and difficult, and I am
so close to fucking the idea of you,
and that seems alright, really, just fine,
but then—boom—cretaceous period.
Just my luck, really, just the essence
of my weekend. It’s fine.
I need the exercise. I’ve been down
on myself lately about the state
of things. I’ve been tossing and turning
and spreading your name across
my bed. I’ve been sick, so sick
that I can’t move, except to hear
your voice in dreams where you become
an ancient lizard and I—still—am here,
a fool, loving you, falling asleep
in my bed with my arm tucked up
under a hoagie, whispering little
things to myself like you’re so sexy
and kissing the empty back
of my own unrelenting palm.
Abigail Raley is a queer poet from Kentucky. They have both published and forthcoming work from Not Your Mother's Breast Milk, The Lickety Split, and Zephyrus. She is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Montana.
