Daniel Brennan

ORANGE CRUSH
circa 2011

Stomach, oh empty vessel, oh sweet tooth
in the bombed-out body of summer,

my desolate suburbia. The click and groan of plastic.
Of my lips on a hard surface’s perspiration.

One calloused hand on my head. Your steady pressure.
Fingers clawing through hair;

I can hardly breathe, the sticky
gulp of escape, August heat

filling my mouth. You ease me into the bliss
of a choke. Throat caught in recoil, tears

running down my flushed face, across its map of acne.
Make me feel good: command and compromise.

All this fun is harmless, so long as the sun’s down
in the back seat of your car. Its soils sweet with tobacco.

Your skin holds pools of streetlight. Sweat a pale sheen
over your troubled face. Mouth crooked, swollen with

tongue. We won’t talk again after this; one foot already
too far in the grave when you wipe my chin with

your thumb. Slip it between my lips. When it’s over,
I polish off what’s left of the room-temp Orange Crush

rolling around by my feet; how my insides
bloat with forgetting. You won’t even drive me

all the way home when we’re done.
Too many dead ends on this stretch

of highway. Too many reminders
of my novice-ness, and too of your experience.

Make you feel good: destination as much
as verdict. My body, all sugared

with craving. With belief that this will one day
have been for the best, my lips split wide

to suffer the heat. You let me savor this
strangeness, all while keeping your eyes

shut tight. You know how to guide my
lips, just as you know not to ask my age.

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