By ROSANNA OH
As you undo the cuff links in your shirt,
the waiter taps me on the shoulder
and tells me that we are the last customers.
Your fish is cold.
I am waiting in the restaurant, thinking you have gone to piss—
instead, I order dessert
as you press yourself against the sink,
scratching at my name,
scouring me with water and soap.
Go ahead, check it again—
you bend to see the tattoo under your navel,
a simple black fact.
We are in Paris, not touching, not holding hands—
you complain that it is difficult to be cultured,
to be accustomed to the open avenues,
the street-side bargaining,
and now, the rawness of the food.
Look, they have shut the doors,
they have turned off the Debussy.
In the darkness, the midnight bells break across
the stirring ink of the Seine.
Come, then, let us both act like men now,
like men who have tattoos.
Rosanna Oh is currently an MFA candidate in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. Originally from Long Island, New York, she now lives and writes in Baltimore Maryland.
[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]
