Edward Johnson
Bio-Reveal
Language is a virus, largesse an aphrodisiac.
Just ask the girls in the basement,
the spaces between them vape-filled, elastic.
The camera needs a subject,
pajamas pulled over heads and hips.
Crickets recharge beyond the sliding glass.
The salted radishes are strangely delicious.
Perfection can be lost in two ways:
oblivion and talking it away.
A man steps away from the ping-pong table
and says, “Sweetheart, I’m not your biological
father but I couldn’t love you any more
than I do. Your mother (makes air quotes)
and I should have said something sooner.”
It’s not that hard to believe in resurrection,
eyes rolled back like egg yolks,
a smell like developing film,
a pick-up truck in flames beside the highway.