Scallops by Isaac Steinzor

A TEAR of SWEAT WORKED its way down the Highway Patrolman's forehead, across the doughy mounds of flesh that hugged his eyesockets and along his cheek, until it beaded on the corner of his upper lip, where he licked it off. He looked like he was made of rubberized foam, or, if you were hungry, funnelcake.
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I stood in a brightly-lit exhibit room
at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,
admiring a painting formerly loved
as a Rembrandt masterpiece,

I lie here, stripped of emotion. Your sheets and comforter are pure white, the sunlight reflecting off of it. Your chest rises and falls in a deep yet slow sequence. Your right arm was wrapped behind my back, and would probably be numb when you woke. What would everyone else say if they knew where we were, what we were doing? We shared an apartment with four other guys, who all played a varsity sport or had in the past. This is the farthest thing from what would be expected from you, because of your position here. You have everything to lose from this. You will lose everything for loving me.

There's a vast green field that sits as easy as the morning sea. Calm yet treacherous, and without danger. Time has returned again and again to a fossilized space; it is evening. Each hill rises and slumps like permafrost of waves are frozen beneath the rich soil. But this place is no tundra, not even near. It's a chaparral of cool breezes. The breath of the birds among a turning deep blue sky. At this particular time of night, the clouds are off in some other state, in some other country, soaring across the sky of someone else's backyard. They're not here, they're somewhere to accompany the divorced sun; to waver as they soar belly-up to an amenable orange drench.

“Alright, I’ll see you later,” I say, leaning in to kiss him. It feels strange. It has for the past few weeks.

“Yeah, bye.” That’s a great way to treat the mother of your child, Peter. I readjust my bag as I head for the door. I feel him watching me as I step out into the cool air.

Albany in the springtime.