It wasn’t till she motioned me over 
to the barstool to meet the guys 
that the ceiling started to spin,
like a carousel gone wrong, helium 
hissing in my head, kiss-shaped 
bruises radiating outward
from the choked purse
of my scrotum. All night
they charted and recharted
her insatiable constellations.
At dawn, all that was left: a moist 
residue where skin had been, a scent 
in the air, like barbecued water.