Sustenance

I woke up and thought my
face had hardened into his hip
bone. One body a simple
extension of the other. No
mess of arms and legs, no
taste of his body rolling off
my bottom lip while I drifted
off. I was really there to see if
his fingernails are as long as
mine. So he slept, and I crept
my hand along his forearm
until our wrists lined up. Just
what I thought: nails the same
length, mine with a little more
dirt underneath. While I
focused on our hands he woke
and only saw reaching. So I
grabbed the plastic bag of
samosas on the nightstand and
started thumbing handfuls into
my mouth, an excuse that
whispered I am trying to love
you less. He called me his
Prince of Burma as he split the
last pastry, feeding me the
smaller half. I remind him of
the time he asked me if that
was hunger or my body
turning in on itself, and I can’t
help but wonder the same for
him as he sinks his teeth into
my lip as if it were an onion,
calling that sustenance.

Michael Schermerhorn

Michael Schermerhorn

Michael Schermerhorn is currently finishing his undergraduate degree at Middlebury College and will graduate in May 2018. He is working on his first book-length poetry project about queer artistry, loss, and memory. He has workshopped at many conferences, including the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, and this is his first publication.
Michael Schermerhorn

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