Sebastian's Basement
I was shipping orange pekoe from a teacup in Sebastian's basement,
thumbing the copy of Emma that I bought for $1.99 at Goodwill the day before;

my fingers coated in the ink funk of the late 60's, the pages of the book
green, in the basement's overhead lights,

I was dreaming of stained glass lamps, tomato soup
slurped from a plastic bowl, slightly melted from the

microwave; five fingers star-fished on my thigh, while
we watched your dad's VSH tape of Monty Python and the

Holy Grail, thinking to myself about the consequences of time, thinking
to myself, how the shower door glass in the bathroom exploded

that afternoon, each tiny shard dotting the linoleum and carpet
like the freckles on my face, the moles on my neck that you licked

with your chapped lips. Your brother
averting his eyes,

and the heat, cloying, legs stuck to the
soft-cold of the green couch, my knee flush

against your hip as I straddled you, dreaming, all summer long
about the sound that hissed out of your teeth,

eventually, your mother became our overseer, distrustful of my
converse, my bangs, grown too long to hide the upward curve

of my eyebrow, or the slant of my cheek in mirth or glee.
Eventually, the heat turned us into zombies, shoes crunching

against the gravel from the trail, where you pushed your finger up
into me. Thinking to myself, that each wayward step, my hair

so much longer than it is now, tangled in your teeth from
fumbling around in the moonlight, thinking to myself

about that book, lost in the ruble of the basement.