william doreski

election day winds down
william doreski

As election day winds down
I crouch before the TV set
to will results the way I wish.

With a sigh you enter the room
and kneel and press against me
with the question of your body

unanswered. I don’t know you,
not even your name. A fever
clots the room. The TV snuffs

like a fire without oxygen.
Democrats and Republicans lose
alike, their candidates rat-faced

and squealing. We merge both parties
in a gush of excess. Wine-dark
fills the windows. The floor heaves

like the deck of a racing yacht.
You wonder aloud if we’re friends
or enemies. Neither, of course,

our famous organs blazing
like Olympic torches, our cries
of joy hooked to snag armfuls

of each other’s flesh. We exhaust
the moment and declare ourselves
winners, but turn on the TV

to make sure. A victory speech,
a concession. Announcers crow
over news we’re too dazzled

to absorb. Your sunset-colored hair
curtains my view of the room
and the scissors of your thighs persist

in powerful imaginings. Days
could pass in this titanic pose.
At last you droop and relax

and we lie side by side like cigars
in a box. Someone got elected,
someone lost. You rise and dress

and let yourself out into night
and the TV glowers at me
for being so glibly unfaithful.