• cause you see, God and me, we real cool. we touch hands when we pass in the halls and it's like a firebrand on my palm and we read joyce out loud when it's cold, and damn, ulysses ain't got nothing on me. and what you got to know about God is that she's all hair and hips and hands and she's got a mouth like a sailor and a tongue like a siren.

    we went to this bar that played jazz and served bad imperials to boys that wanted to be men and God wore some low cut black thing and caustic heels that burned a cinnamon trail in every pizzicato footstep. we were broke by the time we got there and i don't know if it was the beggars or the acid that put holes in our pockets but i had no idea God could dance like that. she burned the wood floor like a watercolor avalanche and s**t you think God's powerful but you ain't got no idea until you see that chick steal heartbeats. she played stravinsky with her limbs and vodka shots, for the men at least, and for the boys she played a modern aphrodite and their chests were her tempo, faster when she fell into her curves, stopping altogether when her ice blues collided with her pryings, ba bum, ba bum. she got off on their stares the way they mapped out her body, the way they traded cash in hallways for ownership of her parts, like she was real estate, and the one who claimed her tits first declared victory. but we all know the boy who got the lips was the real winner.

    she preferred raspberries to money and God damn well had her arms full by the time the boys were drunk on her sticky breath. when she couldn't dance anymore she'd fall into my chest but nearly miss and we'd be a tense crimson for a moment. then she'd come to and peel herself off my skin and drip in her hot vodka breath that i should kiss her. it would rain and i knew it was her, wanting to get closer to me, massaging my back in water and fingertips and letting a single hot tear run down my neck. like God would remember this tomorrow.

    except maybe she would and would never say anything and throw a crumpled up napkin at me at lunchtime. and after classes she'd pretend like there wasn't a long bruise on her left thigh from the man who thought he knew so much, but her shoulder blades told me vulnerability and she bore them like imperfect wings.