I dropped into your white dream like a drunk lost bat, 
only days after you dropped out of mine. 

The titanium light-room littered with banquet tables, 
draped in white like a Last Supper Bingo event, 

one where Jesus and the apostles went missing.
The intense light came from an unseen place, 

everything a glowing shock of x-ray.
Your spare littering of possessions, a humble display,

the church sale no one showed up for, including you.
Helen Reddy was ready, her relics spread over a table, 

your weird little secret, one of many. Autographed LPs, 
stashed in a pink gift box, her toothy smile 

leaping with confidence, like deer tails, off the covers. 
I touched them. You appeared next to my shoulder like magic, 

tall and vibrant, my height, smiling, happier than I’d ever seen you. 
You assured me you were fine with your olive, sparkling eyes. 

Your black shock of hair, a Rorschach nest splashed against 
the white shout of everywhere canvas.

“It’s waiting, you said,” without moving your lips, 
speaking about Harold’s tricked-out, Jaguar hearse.

You would have to go out some strange way—in Max style.
Red taillights glowed against wet black asphalt, unfurling 

from the edge of a brightly lit holy Jesus-Free Bingo Hall, 
into your shimmering, satiny, starlit sky.

Mist rose from twin tailpipes like cigarette smoke, 
and then you were gone.



____

Koss is a queer writer and artist with an MFA from SAIC. She has work in or forthcoming in Diode Poetry, Cincinnati Review, Hobart, Kissing Dynamite, Five Points Anti-Heroin Chic, North Dakota Review, Feral, Chiron Review, Prelude, Lunch Ticket, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, Feral, Lumiere, Rat’s Ass Review, Best Small Fictions 2020, and Kissing Dynamite’s Punk Anthology. Keep up with Koss on Twitter @Koss51209969 and Instagram @koss_singular. Her website is http://koss-works.com.