When Xerxes wrote again: “Deliver up your arms,” Leonidas wrote back: “Come and take them.”
Black eye. The left one. Stubble. Leather jacket and underneath
a black t-shirt with “Fuck You” printed in white. Buckled boots.
His car, named Zeke,
is a ’73 Dodge Dart Swinger.
Peeling pleather front seat, the foam exposed.
He puts his hand on my thigh.
I put mine on top.
His apartment is upstairs
and past pale green corridors with Victorian doors.
“Very like an asylum.”
Swords hang on his walls. Bookshelves.
A big unmade bed. Black sheets.
A stuffed raven on the computer.
I read the spines on the bookshelf
and turn into him, kiss;
pause to unlace my knee-high boots.
He ignites six tea-lights.
I set aside my glasses.
He unbuckles his boots.
I reach under his shirt.
He pushes me onto the bed.
We do the thing we came here to do.
Still, warm, and sleepy I sink
into his scent, and fur, and solid heavy limbs.
When he wakes to take a piss I move to his spot
and prepare my arms for his return.
First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.