Avoid Placing Your Line on a Bundle of Nerves
by Mair Allen
there is, of course, something that binds us together: a forest
green nylon rope or a conditioned thirty feet of jute
a larks head
collapsing
into a square knot the friction of an X
a shared goal of suspension of disbelief
that there is anything besides these two bodies in a gray room
lanolin sweetness rough adjustment’s rhythm—wrap and pull and pause
of apparent satisfaction
we are learning the lengths necessitated by our different circumferences
rib cage deltoid trap the plains across our breastplates how far the stem
from neck to wrist
we leave no space
unmeasured or unconstricted it is not the first time
our love has made it difficult to breathe we are learning
from men with beards ( invariably ) on videos that wreck my algorithm
faceless women I recognize now by their areola
we leave the bind
at our wrists tied with a bow
line something that can be undone
if one of us goes numb
we take
turns practicing the new patterns squeezing fingers to confirm
we still feel everything
we take
blurry photos the gaping aperture reveals our shaking in its appetite for light
Mair Allen is a writer living in Minneapolis, MN. They are an MFA candidate in creative writing at Antioch University. Their work can be found in Griffel, Oroboro, Kithe and Aurora. They were the 2020 winner of the Mikrokosmos poetry competition. Additionally they are a member of the editorial circle of NOYO review.