we’re drinking wine on the top floor

of a parking garage above the comatose city.

august air swirls like soup around our bodies,

his heat pulling me into his orbit.

bleary-eyed streetlamps blink,

swatting moths on the jaundiced avenue.

he tells me he loves me, then

he cuts out my tongue.

pathetic slug slumping off,

slime trailing to shadows.

his kiss pumps polluted air into my lungs,

my exhale bellows his flames.

he says i’m the arsonist & i have no tongue

to contradict him.

he hurls the wine bottle into the air,

the night undressing around us,

the moon clutching my tongue in her fist.

when the bottle hits pavement, the whole world shatters,

a million wincing streetlamps scatter to stars.

i am suspended, tongueless, & bleeding – i lift my hand

to the mouth of the sky, check that it’s still breathing.

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Kate Gargo is a writer from Appleton, Wisconsin. She has a bachelor’s degree in English – Creative Writing and Philosophy from the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire and a master’s degree in Professional Poetry Writing from the University of Denver. Kate received honorable mention in the Association of Writers’ 2022 Intro Journals project and has been published in Mulberry Literary, FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, and Tabula Rasa Review. Kate is an avid fan of fermented foods, forest walks, and sad songs.