Casey Aimer holds an MFA in poetry from Texas State and a bachelor’s in prose from Texas A&M University. For over a decade he has performed nationwide with spoken word and page poetry. He is a former non-profit writing director and the blog editor for the Porter House Review. Aimer has previously been published in Ars Medica, The Fictional Café, Toyon Literary Magazine, Inwood Indiana Press, and more.
Her neck tasted like orange pesticide
but we were unchecked vines
in deserted Olympic stadiums
growing endlessly on one another.
Our desires pedaled themselves
up summits of curves and skin
amateur Tour de France cyclists.
As we stole siesta light, she craved
becoming the words in my mouth,
to be handled with teasing quill flicks,
let my lips explore sinew as syllables.
Curling in petite spirals we spoke French
disguising amour in a veil only we wore.
Flirting with the seam of my clothes she
tried to find where I cracked the most
until I was stolen into her, our pressed lips
tasting of vendetta and flights of napalm.
We were ‘69 hippies dancing ‘round fire
embracing newfound freedoms to feel,
daring any challenge to our clench on life.
I smiled when she danced in acidic candlelight,
battements melting into pirouetted jazz walks,
revolting against any revolution without dance.
In that moment we were our own anomaly,
a fashion week of withering kindling.
We lay in bed daytime California wildfires,
two deviled eggs and a double entendre.