Honourable mention in the 1st Jackpine Sonnet Contest.
Between drinks he said, she was light as a wafer: he could take her in his mouth. But this morning her weight has pushed the air from his lungs, and he lies beneath her, perfectly still—a codling moth pinned to a board. Her skull bones grind together like tectonic plates, threatening a quake in her stomach. Or is it persistent smoke that makes her feel ill? Dregs of musky perfume and day-old deodorant trapped in armpits. The sweat from skin against skin is insufferable, their pores still ooze vodka. Someone has farted, but there’s no dog to blame. Both pretending to be asleep, neither one sure who should make the first move, but they’re waiting for it.