Light stuck to your naked body like a fresh cut haystack after a rain.

You looked just like a desert sunrise and you tasted just like the gumbo

and you smelled just like the spray from the breakers at Patrick’s Point.

And when I pulled your thighs apart the sky opened and God himself

came thundering down wearing a pork pie hat with a press pass stuck in it,

taking a seat at the announcer’s desk of some celestial sky box,

surrounded on every side by bleachers full of rowdy drunken angels.

“Don’t mind Me,” He said into the microphone.

— Carson Reed, from “Speaking in Tongues, YS #45

this and all art in issue by robert patierno

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