On this day only, he shaves compulsorily. In the subway
he clings to an awkward package, his cube-shaped
desire like a New York newspaper bundle in the rain.
Crossing a threshold, he is inside her sub-let. He lacks
prologue: emphatic money, stern muscles. His fingers
won’t collate. His desire aches like schoolboy penmanship.
She unwraps his present. It could be anything: a vase full of light
bulbs, a sampler of shellfish. Then they assemble in each other’s
arms. On this day only, the heart is red paper and achieves symmetry.
Alan Elyshevitz is a poet and short story writer from East Norriton, PA. His poems have appeared most recently in Snail Mail Review, Sliver of Stone, and Tidal Basin Review. In addition, he has published two poetry chapbooks: The Splinter in Passion’s Paw (New Spirit) and Theory of Everything (Pudding House). Currently, he teaches writing at the Community College of Philadelphia.