Oh, her apartment.
Heat the denominator,
detonator, X over Y,
just glue gun me to the hardwood floor.
Here comes the 1 via 86th Street
post-Marina Abramović documentary
somewhere off the Bowery
munch Häagen-Dazs, flavor mimicked latex.
Doorbell of a tarot reader considered 3x. The sound reminded me of her,
something about a major chord quickly followed by a minor.
My gums bleed.
Man seated in the theatre murmured the word "chubby" to his wife,
cursed me for the abrasive light of my dying electronix.
The 1 was the spindle from which I spun, heart matte strips of exposed film.
Trills of harmonica and mica followed.
Restaurants whiz by featuring Montauk pearl oysters.
Sieve trash; find Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds.
Smoke came from my mouth in the form of
wings, trench coat flaps bursting
to expose sear, playbills, pornography.
Trapped in the mouth of wrought iron:
fliers for Bellini. Litter stoops in vibrato
stroke the esophagus of
79th Street until its
a negotiated lavender.
From aerial view,
an urban crop circle.
View from the inside of my intestines would be
the farthest I’ve traveled all summer. Dust, planets, ah.
Fever leaving Slav artist film,
the ferocious pain finally rests.
I am bulbous
and gaunt, nook
voice lace thin.
Walk back to apartment, witness Vegas light show
made by the trees, sun,
a woman’s black top.
Do not smoke 23 days,
resume on the Cancer/Leo cusp,
select Marlboro Lights.
Mother bestows inquiries
of my swelled ankles, murmurs
"flesh aqueducts, some horrible edema."
Lie on towel from the Côtes du Rhône, belongs to her.
Feel righteous enough
to boogie down to a bra in Central Park.
Shorts worn inside out to protect
their low-budg nature. It is the day after my birthday.
76 dollars in my wallet, count girls
with warped cleavage on Horatio St.
Desperate to remove myself from the half splendor,
half bowel movement airing on the Upper West Side,
return to West Village for egg white omelet at La Bonbonniere.
Must fold her towel responsibly to decrease languor.
I give myself permission for Mt. Sinai urgent care,
shame, pure garishness, dom, sub, feverish loneliness.
JESSICA SCICCHITANO was the Nonfiction Editor of Salt Hill Journal throughout her fellowship in the Syracuse University Creative Writing MFA Program. You can find some of her work in Prelude, Sixth Finch, Birdfeast, Potluck, and more. Plagued by claw machines, Twin Peaks, and cows, she wishes to co-host a show on QVC. She lives in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn with her three-legged cat, Will.