Syna Majumder

heart-fixers help with discourse

picture this. backstage is old sequins and
headphones playing the new mcr song
on loop. there are people wishing me
good luck and i am thinking of him.
he speaks with very apparent smiles and
i can pick them out, like apples from trees.
backstage is hot hot hot like surgery.
(actually, operation theatres are very cold.
this is common knowledge but just maybe
you don't know it. just maybe i am impressive.)
the singers are boiling water on a bunsen
and i am wearing a skirt where there isn't
supposed to be one. it's not like i didn't pick
it out, just that i didn't pick it out today.
we went to the orchard once. he was apologetic:
it was the wrong month. there's no
apples in june, baby, but i love you still.
i've forgotten my lines. i'm sally bowles inside
of maximillian von heune wearing the emcee
on my hips, under my teeth. the difference
between me and you is one of clarity.
i'm not white enough to be this queer.
i'm not pretty enough to be indecisive,
and yet. hot water down all the costumes.
hot sun beating down on feather-messy hair.
light sinking into his fingertips on my back.
i back him into a tree and his crutch words taste
like a knife through sun-baked fruit.

my fling is listening to little green bag

and telling me reservoir dogs was gay,
sketching a weekend commission idly
as I try not to burn the coffee. this is
one of the reasons we like each other,
because I try to get better at food and
she can recite the last few scenes of a
Tarantino movie like she gets paid for it.
we go to work and meet up at a diner.
her leather jacket is slung over the
back of the seat, a splash of black
and metal over the most accessible
symbol of americana: solid food and
solid seats. she's watching her figure,
yet another symbol, and so am i,
ordering a greasy burger and overdone
fries at 7pm. everything has some
meaning over here, almost like a
man bleeding out in the arms of the
guy he betrayed. flashy, hurtful, a scene
men think is oh-so normal. it's a great
ending, she says, nails on the table,
makes you think about masculinity
and what it really is. i don’t know anything
about men, ironically. i can sound out that
word unconsciously, shapes of surgery-scars
on my chest. i can tell her nothing about
it, but i know that it has too many syllables
for something unimportant. she tells
me that heist movies can be about
codependency as well as getting shot,
and i remind her to take the trash out.
that's what love is. we're going to be fine.