Gabrielle Grace Hogan 

Chiaroscuro

i’m setting the room on fire.
i’m setting the house on fire.

i’m setting the key to the house
on fire. i’m setting the orchids

on fire, the roses, the bluebonnets,
the sunflowers. the cheerleader

rivets around half-naked women
in football jersey crop tops, the Supremes’

“You Keep Me Hangin’ On”
at a breathless pitch. my tongue waters

at her landscape. i worship at her thighs’
flexible sugar. she wants to be set free.

i’m setting the football field
on fire. i’m setting sex on fire.

i watch her zephyr across
the astroturf. she wants to be a song

instrumental to the knees.
i want her to love me

like a soft breeze. when she rolls
her body & her skirt settles in the cavity

of her thighs, i know i’ve met a trouble
i can’t yet define. i want to be a shelf

on which little plates can sit.
i want to be a nest of hibernating

kumquats. are we about to kiss?
the night swells with girls.

i’m setting the setting sun
on fire. she follows me home

& we drink strawberry
lemonade & she puts

a lemon wedge in my mouth
& takes a lemon baller to my eyes

& replaces them with stalks of lavender—
then descends back into pixels,

blonde smudge no wider than a thumbprint,
echoing ouroboros of my sexuality.

my groaning spine lifts from the bed.
i’m setting the bed on fire.

i’m setting the tv on fire. the screen
smolders with such elegance.