The One Night Stand

By Mila Beliso

He approaches you quietly
as if you had been
sneaking glimpses of each other
in a dystopian prison camp
for weeks.

Your teeth don’t touch
when he kisses you,
the stretch of his arm
is as contrived as cinema –
the mirror confirms
you are gold, baby!

A comb grazes his hair
when he thinks you
aren’t looking and
your nostrils are comforted by
the scent of latex,
he is new-car smell.

The act itself is so consensual
that you affirm your hope
for mankind.
You apologize –
you can’t help but to approach
romantic situations
politically.

Tomorrow, images of his posture
and of your bent body
will simmer in your memory
like the lull of an old fridge
and

you will wonder if all of those anecdotal
comments you made between positions
were clever and sexy and fitting enough,
and you’ll turn down the heat
on your Sunday morning pot of tea
so the boiling water won’t make
that ugly, high-pitched crescendo
of a sound.