Toine has a new stereo. Mystikal grumbles
“Shake ya ass, but watch yo self. Shake ya ass”
into the street. A squirrel
crushed by a car, baking on the pavement—
you have a stick in hand to prod
the roadkill, but Chris passes grayscale porn
printouts, hot sauce stained.
You can’t see much because of the folds
in the sheets, the ink bled. Like the squirrel
flattened, spread, naked women displayed. You reduce
to a throb in your jeans.
Cynthia with the lazy eye rolls
up on her bike. Swishing her hips slow
as you all scramble to hide the pictures,
she tells you to turn up the music
so she can dance.
The song ends. She sits next to you.
You eye buttonholes
in her shirt, snaggletooth
behind glossed lips, slide closer.
She hooks an arm around Toine’s neck,
slips into his lap.
You stare at the squirrel, this mangled thing
you want to poke with a stick.
Quintin Collins (he/him) is a writer, assistant director of the Solstice MFA in Creative Writing Program, and a poetry editor for Salamander. He is the author of The Dandelion Speaks of Survival and Claim Tickets for Stolen People, selected by Marcus Jackson as winner of The Journal’s 2020 Charles B. Wheeler Prize. Quintin’s other awards and accolades include a Pushcart Prize, a BCALA Literary Award honor, a Mass Cultural Council grant, the 2019 Atlantis Award from the Poet’s Billow, and Best of the Net nominations.
