All I can see are his knees up
in the air around his head in the daylight
— the car lying sorry behind with its motor still running —
his bike curb curved on the ground beside him,
and his body lying strange
at angles, like badly painted highway lines.

And absurdly, I think
about how earlier I had wanted to be touched —
fuck­hungry for knees red
wrapped around me like a bind,
someone tugging on my hair,
like: I did something very bad —
until — I am going to lose consciousness,
until I am thrown blind onto the floor,
until I am smacked ground­down.

Hungry, for speed,
thirsty, they call it,
for action like in films where things don’t stop
moving stunt double timing super human levitation
fast­forward the frame to 48 to flying across the highway —
while people watch breathing
heavy leaving me letting petting steadying me with hands in
and out, in and out,
pinching themselves or one another each moving
the other to check
like for pulses for clarity
that we are conscious in this.

And then the scene pauses —
(we are still, giving,
from me) too soon
(from you) two knees,
and I have just a few seconds
to wonder what noise to imagine
for what pain sounds like
when we stop moving and
I have just a few seconds to wonder
at what volume we stop feeling things

AVIVA LeSHAW is a creative writing student who moonlights as a professional organizer and personal assistant. She has interned at multiple NYC literary organizations, including The Oxford University Press and The Center for Fiction. Her poetry has been published at The Oxford University Press Blog, The McGill Daily and Tribune, and Hobart Pulp.
The Adirondack Review