It was October. I was between men.
I loved autumn. Sudden cold fronts,
and when I walked, crunching leaves under my feet,
I made a sound like smashing glass.
Then the two men were flanking me.
They were not supposed to meet like this—
on the street, unexplained. We walked
toward the setting sun. I was the wedge between them.
No hard feelings, I said. I didn’t steal anyone’s anything.
It’s hard to walk down a sidewalk between two men,
with all the friction of hips and swinging arms,
and the sun smoldering beautifully
through a haze smog.
I was just hungry, I said. Deal with it. You’re men.
We entered a long hall. They held me up;
my legs wouldn’t lock or step
as we passed the rows of identical cages
to the room of the serious electricity.
How did we get here? I asked. Is this a metaphor?
One of them put a finger to his lips.
At midnight, for a moment, the lights dimmed.