Bedside Surgeon (a Grindr poem)

Yours is a precision arm

a reach which could

make spines forget legs

or left forget right

tongue forget tongue

your screen unlocked

head bowed in prayer

private and away

your face a mask of orange neon

with the expression forms a sign to ‘wait’

seconds before, we were one

language of limbs, a conjoined creature

now cut in two by your device

a bedside surgeon

and I’m still glazed by our fluids