Your father should be here.

He does the business. Closes the deals.

Her body moves past me.

I try to think of excuses for him,

but there aren’t any.

Headlights of cars

filter through the gate.

I watch the soulless

face of the Lotus Keeper.

His eyes are closed,

his cracked terra-cotta hands

domed over

his perfect clay flower.

She’s right.

He should

be here.

Two Champagne Bottles

Half-full,

pink and bubbling,

cheese tower, salami,

rising under the moon,

the Artist asleep in the back room.

The gate to the outside world is locked.

Lisa takes my hand.

Champagne, on average,

holds between three and twenty grams of carbohydrates.

But I am not thinking about The Diet Book.

I am thinking about Lisa,

still in her navy-blue bikini, white

button-down shirt over her shoulders.

We are sprites in the dark kitchen.

I hold a glass near my nose,

watch bubbles squeeze, pop,

and explode into my nostrils.

I stare at the pinkish liquid.

Lisa stands on the other side of the counter.

Cheers, she says,

holds her glass toward me in the air.

She is giving me something that is just for us.

She smiles. Her lips form around the edge.

Drinks are not new for her.

Once, the doctors told Lisa she should never drink,

that she might get sick like her mother.

I drink.

It burns.

I cough.

The bubbles jam my throat.

I hold it down until it turns

into pops of laughter,

our hands over our mouths,

champagne on the counter,

on the floor. I feel my fingertips,

like they are separate from my body.

We try to stay quiet, pour glass after glass.

Lisa can drink it so fast. I take one sip at a time.

We laugh until we knock the salami and cheese

to the floor. We scramble to the far side

of the counter. Did we wake her?

I hold my breath, but trying not to laugh

makes it harder. We huddle close,

her hands on my shoulders,

now my knees,

her blond hair

in my hair now,

and she looks me in my eyes.

The fire, the champagne, the fear makes me numb

until I feel her grip, close above my knee,

and I squirm, tickled into uselessness,

but she doesn’t stop.

Her hands are on my body.

I feel her fingers climb beneath my shirt,

reach over my love handles, onto my stomach.

No one has ever touched my stomach.

For a moment, I feel shame like cold water,

and I turn on my side. She doesn’t stop,

but I’m okay.

She laughs louder.

I reach for her hand,

feel the length of her shoulder, her arm.

That’s it, I say, laughing.

Don’t make me sit on you.

Her hands finally tired,

she surrenders

in quiet laughter,

breath,

cheese,

the unexpected warmth

of bodies close

beneath the countless stars.

After Champagne

Eyes open,

my head glued to the pillow,