Remake: The Kiss
Colleen Abel
Again, we fuck
to a soundtrack:
Baby Einstein’s Classic
Lullabies. The plink
and wretched plonk
of toy piano,
tinny synthed cello
buzzing Die Moldau
or Pachelbel’s syrupy
trill. The baby
won’t sleep deeply
without it, wakes
in the silence
at the slightest
sound: a moan
or gasp, inane
words we murmur
to each other.
So we go
soundless. After, we
exhaust, the blear
of not-quite-
Mozart casting us
toward sleep, bodies
fused in this:
something close, though
not-quite-bliss.
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to a soundtrack:
Baby Einstein’s Classic
Lullabies. The plink
and wretched plonk
of toy piano,
tinny synthed cello
buzzing Die Moldau
or Pachelbel’s syrupy
trill. The baby
won’t sleep deeply
without it, wakes
in the silence
at the slightest
sound: a moan
or gasp, inane
words we murmur
to each other.
So we go
soundless. After, we
exhaust, the blear
of not-quite-
Mozart casting us
toward sleep, bodies
fused in this:
something close, though
not-quite-bliss.