Cleo Abramian




          Goodbye, Dragon Inn


I’m starving so I go
to the goodbye movie
where the woman eats the whole
time in silence
pink steamed bun in a Tupperware
is tragic and hot
you say it’s always like that
a song that has no middle
or edge
a hard rain beyond
her stairwell
a hard rain offscreen

A sickness of sky
diluted with pearls
it gives me little thrills
how can you be so sure
the whole time
she slices the bun into smaller halves
to get at the thing in the middle
to get at the blackened middle

I push my face against the screen
the vulgarity of her slowness
lights up my impossible jewel
the alarm sounds off
I sit with her in the rain
in the long topography
of the flattened rain

I don’t remember dreams anymore
except when I’m here
watching you in dreams
and I reach back in
that’s where I live
in the deep room
in the dark middle

Back and driving with you
in your terrible car
in the middle of the night
along the flooded wasteland
accelerating with the seat
completely reclined
that was real
it brings you peace
to have known me
I will be so humble




Inner Ear   
   

Digging my head into the moonflower
I blah blah dream of breastmilk

mugwort colors
my belly button square

disturbingly blond couple
alerts my longing

it tugs like a pill
a soft-boiled pear
the dampness rinsed clean

your other lover
does not want a baby
she never did
but I know she could have one







Cleo Abramian is the author of the chapbook Debt (b l u s h, 2023). Her writing has appeared in Armenian Creatives, Shitwonder, Columbia Journal, dirt child and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles.