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