Ghidorah’s and my first date. We climb the fire escape
to look at the Minneapolis skyline. His arm suddenly
around my back. We do not kiss yet, but I pick out
all my favorite buildings.
Already there is so much
I’ve learned about you:
your favorite the pinetum,
you dislike shrimp, will eat
my ass if I ask you.
Like a split pocket of marbles
whirlpools the concrete floor
to settle in the low center
of the basement,
Ghidorah descends on Godzilla.
I taste my first bomb-pop and think of you,
Ghidorah, the only boy I loved,
all of your ears sticking out so slightly.
I once saw a turtle washed out of its shell,
your hands too big for your body.
How would you feel if car alarms went off for you?
Nobody cares, but I care.