Black Daisies

“It’s time to get drunk”

—Charles Baudelaire

We’re inside the barrel of a heat wave, my abstinent partner and I.
The earth, the sky, the strange Nevada sun blazing

in between. A tattooed river courses up his pale forearm, and a 
single moustached koi threads upstream, the fish rendered separate 
from its world.

Across the table Hopeless Jack slings ice cubes down the canyon 
of his mouth, crushes them with a metallic tang, says, Man, I’ve 
been sober for over a decade,

and I still can’t sit still. The roof vent exhales a steamy breath, and 
the sun starts glaring out through the ground.

I have spent my life in badly lit rooms, and the only thing this 
brightness reminds me of is my cousin kneeling in the wooden 
confessional in front of the delirious light of God pouring in through 
the latticed partition, and him letting out a loud wet fart. It’s sitting 
in light

we can’t do. The heat is just a bitter oleander. Desert thrift. A clod 
of dirt you’re starting to feel like, and there’s nothing you can do 
about it but wish for a spit

of rain. Though now I want a narrow vase with black daisies before 
me. Not a lush flowerbed or a shadowy bank pearled with dew. Just 
a spray of black daisies

curving like script over uncomplaining earth, or crotch hair shy-
curling into its own heat. Little wicks drawing fuel to the flame.

I want a wet, light-absorbing language. A crawling, heat-converting 
argot. And I want to drink it

like liquor.

Read more from Issue 18.2.