from Centrifuge Eric lives above a small clinic on Ocean Parkway. Eric says meet me by the yellow deli and we walk together. Eric: 5’5, skin the color of milky coffee and green glass eyes. I’m too tall, pale, padded strapless bra, baby pink tank top. I float his room, touch his things (a gun... is that really a gun?) trace them gently like a girl.
Come into the bathroom (it’s dark) sit on my lap, (I sit) tell me what you want. Eric’s friends come over, high school boys, brown and long-limbed. They’re easy, fill the room. One cocks his head: This your girl? Nah, Eric answers, rolling blunts, not looking up.
First week of high school, the Towers fall. We’re in the auditorium waiting. Simon sits in my lap and pricks my finger. He puts the bloody mess in his mouth. I don’t know him. I could sleep for 100 years, I’m faint, that’s how come he’s my boyfriend.
A date we go on: Natural History Museum: he finger fucks me right below the towering elephants. I take myself home, eyes closed against the subway glass.
At lunch, a friend pulls me aside. Simon says you’re dumb as shit but at least you’re pretty.
I pass him a note and tell him it’s over. Simon garbage cans my friend, fractures her arm. Simon dates a girl I know. One night, at a metal show, I run into them.
She minds the heat and I lend her my shirt, a tank top. She never gives it back. She tells me she likes to wear it when he fucks her.
Gala Mukomolova received her MFA from the Helen Zell Writers’ Program. She is a poetry editor for Muzzle Magazine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in a variety of places including Indiana Review, Drunken Boat, and PANK. She has resided at the Vermont Studio Center, the Pink Door Retreat, and Six Points Fellowship: ASYLUM International Jewish Artist Retreat. Nowadays, she impersonates an astrologer for The Hairpin. She's a lesbian. It's cool.