Dan Kraines
Cognac
Is a love a song a love song if it has no words
you asked, under vines in the courtyard,
vines strung above our heads through tiny, lit bulbs.
On your couch, you curled your knees toward me: absurd
how we love just being next to each other, at a party, guarded:
is a love song a love song if it has no words?
Tiger lily, begonias, sunflowers, fuchsia. We danced.
I’m your friend, a long stem uncut, unheard:
is a love song a love song if it has no words?
You told me where you stood, then, curt:
I’m glad we cleared the air. Scarred,
I avoid your touch, snapping back, like a cobra, hurt.
Even as we’re photographed, recorded,
noticed, we’re barred,
a love song without words
without sounds, without verbs.
Dan Kraines reads “Cognac”
Dan Kraines is a queer poet of Ukrainian, Viennese, and Bolivian heritage. He lives in an old tenement building on the Lower East Side. He teaches creative writing and creative nonfiction at the Fashion Institute of Technology. You can contact him @dan_kraines for his most recent work: a copy of his chapbook, Jaffa.