By Michelle Vider
for the nhl, which is trash
slow. no, slower than that. haha, oh, slower than that.
slow wide circles marked by wider eyes.
eyes green like the hulk on a sunny day
and they’d narrow if emoting wasn’t so cheap.
a top row of teeth slide out, then slide back out of sight.
slow wide circles, quickening sprints.
the perfect slot will reveal itself;
it just takes patience, gripping, waiting.
remember how raptors hunt in packs? try that.
a bared throat, thick hands pinning arms.
one locked on a shot, one ready to let it fly.
they’re silky soft hands
no one ever notices that
they could pack groceries
they hold puppies
they only bruise for pay
(and for fun, god, work is fun)
held hostage by a language barrier, but then
god herself conjures MILLENNIAL HITS VOL 1
you’re both 33 but he’s a rough 33
a dying for his boys’ sins 33, but then
MARIAH CAREY shatters a handle of vodka
there’s tears running down your cheeks
if only his massive body was your own
every ache laughed off, treated with
some ice and a frosty can of Coke
inside him, this brightness that just
wants to dance
Michelle Vider is a writer based in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in The Toast, The Rumpus, Strange Horizons, Open Letters Monthly, and elsewhere. Find her at michellevider.com.