Andrej Bilovsky


I’m dating a kindly forty-three-year-old hospital nurse,

who wears a leash around his throat and sober jeans.

Sometimes he leaps on my lap, like a dog.

And he licks just like one too.

It doesn’t embarrass me when we’re out together.

And I learned to enjoy playing his therapeutic games.

He has great explanations for why some things don’t matter.

I call him Molly and he laughs.

He says no one and nothing has ever pleased him more than I do.

His name for me is the Neon leprechaun.

He’s seen death on the job but he doesn’t let that get to him.

It comes with a promise to give life his undivided attention.

And his piercings are modest and few but each one has a meaning.

One or two even shine in the dark.

Some nights, I flop like a pendant across his bones.

There’s an unspoken intensity to weariness.



One morning in a cave of summer sockets,

music glistened lenses, flew up thick as tears.

from the avenue, thick and huge,

a window of tortoise-shell glasses –

a small man I take from you,

a foreigner at night, one hand set down,

beside the vials of a nose, no taller

than morphine, in a car driven by a bull god –

wheels tight to what wasn’t ours, God’s curb

tinged with tracks and lilies, rocking a ditch,

tower of fire invoking Aries, a round pointed roof,

a horned monster, hung over the edge.