The ocean receded. I have a boy and we are in love. It is easy this way. I watch from the
corduroy nest of their armchair. She smokes epically. I still look clumsy with cigarettes. I draw

my knees up over my body. I draw less. Still life with who doesn’t want to be cool. I watch her
mouth. Her voice is like right out of Daria. I smoke his cigarette. I watch my mouth. Where

the hard shell slits open. Watch what comes out. That slut. It comes out of my throat all fortified
by centuries. I plug my mouth with cigarette. I swallow what comes out. Here and there

I bristle through. Filigree of stalks. New eyes all blind. I inhale. His body a screen where she
each have an entry. That slut. I am something else.


Sit me alone on a page. And what of her taken up with a straw. I inhale. An hourglass flat on the
page. I draw in she arms and legs. I draw the word out of my body. Not through the mouth.

Turn up the heat lamp turn up she heroine eyes. Time flows and eddies. I watch her on the busted
couch. I watch with my whole body. Mouth shut I smoke the word out. It comes off me

in waves. Now what. I lean toward her she draws it out like metal filings. A string of paper dolls.
She’s this magnet but what am I. That what. What what. He vibrates between.

I lick the salt edge of my thumb. I have a boy here. The difficulty is figuring out where to get off.
The art of ringing all your bells.  

Later I lick her off his teeth. And during all of it the river ran north.


Junn Marie Nunes is the author of 5 chapbooks, most recently the collaborative HYMN: An Ovulution (Bloof Books). Her work appears in such journals as Tupelo Quarterly, Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, New Orleans Review and spork, and she is co-founding editor of TENDE RLOIN, an online gallery for poetry. Her first full-length collection, AND/OR, was selected by Dawn Lundy Martin as winner of the Switchback Books’ Queer Voices Award.