Abigail Kirby Conklin

Wanna go fuck
in the bathroom
downstairs while
your opener grates
his heart against the frets
of his borrowed
electric guitar?
Each time he keens
the recent ex’s name
into the mic,
the bowl of my hips
pulls tighter, the urgency
of you and me
and some off-brand
version of “alone”
intensifies.
The lighting is bad
down there – I went
to check. But there are two
floor-length mirrors,
and the stalls
are four feet wide.
This is the perk
of becoming
so avant-garde –
you’re niche, and the venues
offer much better
amenities. We could
get something done
in there.
I could suck
a grape
into the soft meat
of your neck
where your stubble
tapers off,
admit to murder.
Stay perfectly still,
pressed, skin pressed,
when the act finally ends,
the audience rushing in
to piss out its green-
bottled beer.
Tell you shhh.