God I loved you that Saturday night making out on a subway of barely clothed strangers—two dominatrices, a nurse and the perennial Catholic schoolgirl. I didn’t tire of your bare back- bone or your tongue coming and coming. But when you held the peanut jar to trap the flying cockroach on the bathroom wall
sat in the bathtub to coax him in, and I slipped the manila folder to lid the jar, carried his wings in my elbow to lay on the Brooklyn green, then oh God I knew it would not be easy to stop loving you. Motionless, your hair in your eyes—your antennae quivering quivering still.
Jai Chakrabarti’s work has appeared in numerous publications including Barrow Street, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Rattapallax. A native of Kolkata, India, he calls Brooklyn home.
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