Poetry: Two Poems by Isaac Salazar

Amyl Nitrate

           After Imani Davis

Like an obsidian blade, subtlety. In a place of yes,
your lips rule, iron-fisting against my choked nose.
Christina Aguilera in the club & we unleash
inhibition. New moon’s hole, ball-gagged. Eyes
beaded beneath the violet light’s summer body.
Your vice grip still nameless in my throat—
tongue-drowned in saliva’s deluge, I always want
to understand your linger, that bloated sugar-sweet vined
in the orchard of my nostrils. There: Two hooded monks.
Then nothingness. Amsterdam of my day, there are
many colors. I walk on a cobblestone street &, now,
it occurs: The miserable crawl of my breath. Unimprovised,
this pirouetted dizzy. Finally, my head holds a god.
Be done. There’s nothing more to say.



Note

The line “Your vice grip still nameless in my throat” is borrowed from Cristina Correa’s poem “My Mind Is a Long Song,” published in The Missouri Review.

The last line is taken from Imani Davis’ poem “Kink.”




Self-Portrait as Aloe Vera

In my sultriness
             I burlesque,

succulent
             & thick-fleshed.

On the porch, a Texas sun
             pries open a clingy roof

with its pocketknife
             of light & I realize

public play, its nature toward ritual.
             My maw, immeasurable in wait,

like a voyeuristic gator.
             No sense of beginning

in this vessel where I’ve erected
             my immortal, gray-green tongue.

Long-distanced from speech—
             cruel anticipation. This meeting

of street cats. Bone-white, my fangs
             make a mess out of a hand,

drawing out its syrup like a mosquito.
             How to reconcile me:

Hold a flower
             then hold a knife. Again,

August, & my body
             spills its sauce.

I piece together the leech
             of me onto you, wanting

to be cupped. Like water through
             a sieve, brief romance.

As survival arrives, I coax
             a drooling pursuit like a dog

submitting to a treat.
             Damaged finding damaged.

In the kiln of day,
             there is a wound in a glaze.

A sweaty dream.




 
Isaac Salazar smiling at the camera

About Isaac Salazar

Isaac Salazar is an Austin-born and Houston-based poet. His work is published or forthcoming in AGNI, Dead End Zine, orangepeel, The Acentos Review, and Where Meadows, among others. He is a graduate student at Rice University.

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