for John K. It is not the flesh I want but what glows behind it. For you are not the face softened with evening. Not the eyes I’ve searched, in vain, for my own. Because you are never what binds you— not muscle or organ, not even the voice: that rupture of air I dare to deem melodic. Who can trust the body when making love? How it never fails to fail so accurately. The way it promises to wither despite joy. As I lie on top, my tongue resting on your chest— the steady metronome blooming beneath it, I can’t help the urge to pry you open, plunge through the artifice of beauty. And if I were to tear apart the heart, lower my face into that warmth, would I see you among that glistening ruin? Would there be a small sphere of light to swallow? *Jeffrey Dahmer was a notorious serial killer and cannibal.