I think this man is sending me texts tonight because he wants to have sex
\nbut I’m tired, plus I ignored him earlier and I do<\/p>\n
want to say no and I do
\nwant to tell you that this guy wants to fuck me,<\/p>\n
right now, while you’re doing whatever in your
\napartment or at a party, and I am just reading<\/p>\n
silk and silent words marching like ghosts in bed
\nwaiting for a text from you talking about how<\/p>\n
this afternoon we saw each other,
\nplayed pinball, ate kale, left before dark that says<\/p>\n
thanks for hanging out with me
\nthe clouds today were like marbles,<\/p>\n
see you later, sorry for anything,
\nhave a good night, ok? And the bed<\/p>\n
is silk like a web
\na quiet like a<\/p>\n
material that’s just cooled
\nafter spinning out of a live body,<\/p>\n
a quiet like it’s late night early morning
\nbefore a baby is born, or when a star<\/p>\n
leans on its side at night in the galaxy,
\nits reflection down on earth, in a dark sliding-glass door<\/p>\n
where a man is at a party
\nhalf talking to someone, his head tilted<\/p>\n
like he’s listening, seeing<\/p>\n
a swimming flame, hot
\non the glass,<\/p>\n
a drink in his hand,
\nand he is thinking<\/p>\n
it’s a firefly and she is thinking she didn’t die
\na million years ago, which is how long it takes light<\/p>\n
to reach a man.<\/p>\n
Yellow Days with Whoever<\/strong><\/p>\n Somewhere around last year<\/p>\n I realized that the scarf strangling<\/p>\n my city could be fatal, started<\/p>\n trying to loosen myself<\/p>\n from myself wringing myself<\/p>\n with marigolds, which scare off ants<\/p>\n like lions uttered in the tongue<\/p>\n of human anvils, conquering lawns,<\/p>\n scaring God with eyeliner,<\/p>\n Mitzvahs and singing come in shudders<\/p>\n stretching across seconds, sailing<\/p>\n now I’m thinking those are the way out<\/p>\n sunlight stamping through the fabric<\/p>\n with its blades because the end<\/p>\n is muffled and it’s behind the only one<\/p>\n coughing and when I close my eyes<\/p>\n I can share in your smile, and I think<\/p>\n that takes some of the burden off<\/p>\n being you.<\/p>\n How the Strip Club is a Constellation<\/strong><\/p>\n I told you I was going to the bar to meet my friend, on a drawbridge, and it lifted. Behind the bar are blue bombs like water silvering a one way street, the calm of looking but not After a certain amount of time, glass gets powdered with wounds There is no repairing of glass like that, there is only to melt it the shock on my skin right now, inside the mantle I ought to learn something, and be alone for a while to do to be happy, how now that you don’t love me, or just somehow different from you, the part that knows even with a machete, even with a spoon, the prosaic, just to suck on human flesh, see the health I am going to survive, feel that the world is truly inside me, licking at the world, is the heart of that girl ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> I think this man is sending me texts tonight because he wants to have sex want to say no and I do right now, while you’re doing whatever in your silk and silent words marching like ghosts in bed this afternoon we saw each other<\/p>\n By Julia Clare Tillinghast-Akalin.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-51078","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51078","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=51078"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51078\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=51078"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=51078"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=51078"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nbut due to some of the things you said to me I was driving<\/p>\n
\nof nitrous and the music the girls are dancing to melts into a coating<\/p>\n
\neven being able to touch, of skin saying even though, life.<\/p>\n
\nshaped like a pixel too small to see.<\/p>\n
\ndown into molten and begin again, with a fresh soul. Inside<\/p>\n
\nthat tells me I ought to be sorry, I ought to feel more,<\/p>\n
\nis the pulse that chants about what I want to do, what I need<\/p>\n
\nI can fuck dudes who are way hotter than you,<\/p>\n
\nI must plow through happiness, clearing myself a path<\/p>\n
\nelbows and then under that, a mouth that wants<\/p>\n
\nof a naked girl’s skin and feel<\/p>\n
\na marvel, and inside the body of that body<\/p>\n
\nwhose love is as pure and simple as lust.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/223879_10151136076823464_700232674_n1-225x300.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nJulia Clare Tillinghast-Akalin<\/strong> is from Michigan. She studied poetry at Sarah Lawrence College and Virginia Tech, where she received her MFA. She has spent a number of years, on and off, living in Istanbul, Turkey, and is Co-Translator of Dirty August<\/em>, a selected poems of the experimental 20th-century Turkish poet Edip Cansever. In addition to translations in Agni<\/em>, Guernica<\/em>, Arts & Letters<\/em>, Poetry Daily<\/em>, The Boston Review<\/em> & others, she has had or has original poems forthcoming in Passages North<\/em>, Sou’Wester<\/em>, Pank<\/em>, and The Bakery<\/em>. She lives in Portland with her son, Hamza. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/223879_10151136076823464_700232674_n1-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nbut I’m tired, plus I ignored him earlier and I do<\/p>\n
\nwant to tell you that this guy wants to fuck me,<\/p>\n
\napartment or at a party, and I am just reading<\/p>\n
\nwaiting for a text from you talking about how<\/p>\n