Sour Grilled Home for Dinner
When Thu told me we were the only ones who had each other’s backs and fronts and overs and unders, I flipped over and halved myself into lime slices. That was how over the moon I was— I wanted to season it and dine on it afterwards. Thu did too, he told me. We were going to eat the moon together, we didn’t care that we were riding on it. The shrapnels would be zesty.
His mother called me one day, when I had momentarily forgotten the existence of homes, and asked, “Is he there with you?” No, he fell off the moon. When will he be back? As long as it takes to climb back. There is a ladder.
Just a week later, Thu drove me to the sea— we would make a new home in the waves. Accordingly. I asked, “Can you swim the entire length?” You use all your muscles when you swim. Thu said his hamstrings had enough practice from moonclimbing, so I kissed his quads. Could we live somewhere else? I have you. I have you.
One moon passed and his mother called me again, called me a bitch. “Is he there with you?” No, I fell off the moon and my calves aren’t toned.
T.R.San (they/them) is a queer poet and writer based in Yangon who writes horror without meaning to. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Travesties?! Press, Mister Magazine, Tigers Zine, Sweet Tooth Poetry, KCB Mag and Diphthong Literary. They tweet at @trsanpoet.