☀ Today's Poem: "The Age of Pleasure" Derrick Austin

for Erdem

The hottest day in the hottest week in human history.
Cats in shadow dodged the sun but not each other's rage or lust,
shredding and shrieking behind the Euro Plaza Hotel.
What had you done for seven weeks but get food poisoning
and your phone pickpocketed? The only person you knew
on the continent was your lover with a jellyfish tattooed on his back.
Iced tea at the coffee shop where he worked. It wasn't true
that you never went out. The mosaics were hidden. All but one
museum was closed for renovation. The police demanded
your passport in the street. The police have that unmistakable tone
even in another tongue. Around midnight you'd turn feral
if he didn't call, his voice guiding you beyond the stony fortress of the self.
Your best friend texted, Fuck a Gemini at your peril.
Your gums bled when you flossed in his bathroom.
He was depressed. You were too, though the particulars differed.
The last time you shared his bed you were reading Ordinary Notes,
which redefined your favorite word. If elegance
be "concentrated sensibility for pleasure despite terror,"
you wrote in the black notebook with gold cranes
your mother gave you. You gave him a vase of star jasmine.
He poured tea from a French press and slathered your toast
in jam and almond butter. You put him on to Janelle Monae,
and he wouldn't play anyone else. He hummed when you rubbed his beard.
Close your eyes and see the tulip under the hair on his forearm.
Or it's summer again. Or you're not fearful. Or you can sleep.