Blue Hole #4Â |Â Erin Slaughter
On Monday, Mark Zuckerberg gave the Pope a drone and I let a stranger fuck me in a public bathroom.
There is a way to fall in love with a blue-green sparkle of breath on the neck that has nothing to do with atoms, or crying. Like knocked spread eagle on the carpet in grief, imagining how the camera pans out. One long, slow shot that stretches like a river across the ceiling, or a close-up of the cheese shards in the carpet.
Tasmanian devils are being plagued by a deadly genetic cancer and I am answering
my own text messages with a list of reasons everyone who loves me is wrong or lying. I am drinking a margarita from a can in a dark desert hotel room. I am writing secrets on napkins and leaving them around the house for no one.
Radio says they unclogged an anaconda from a river drain, diamonds on diamonds shed
like the memory of a summer night, the moon looking awestruck. Like he had seen so much and never expected to be seen back.
