Jennifer Jantzen

they say lunacy comes from moonlight

so you must be the moon.
i mean hi. i mean hey.
are you free tonight?

cool. i know you don’t like movies
but i have no hobbies,
and these tickets are burning
a hole in my pocket.

so please: nod politely as i describe
some junk about robots or love.
pretend you don’t see the EXIT sign
glowing like heaven behind us.

one more thing:
is it cool if i rest my arm
here, where a crescent of skin
evades your turtleneck?
no no, you’re right,
it’s hot in here anyways.

the sweat on your neck shines,
a perfect moon pooled with craters.
all this to say: please. i want you
to grab me when the lights go out.
i want you to carve a hole
in this popcorn tub like a pervert.
shit. am i

still talking? i’m not good at this.
once i felt desire and plunged
my head between two plush seats,
pretending to look for something else,
haha. is that healthy?

could i tell you about
the moon?
how it makes me curve
into your arm? or are
you busy? you’re busy,
right?

are you watching
the screen? are you
watching my body?
if desire claws a crescent
out of me, will you forgive
tomorrow
and tomorrow?

the lights come up. shit.
i’m sorry. i like how
you say what you mean.

but i don’t tell you that.

i whisper goodnight
into your hair instead,
so you will not hear me.

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Jennifer Jantzen is a writer and educational professional based in Washington, DC. Her poetry has appeared in Alexandria Quarterly and The Disappointed Housewife. When not working, she dreams of dogs and performs with her punk band, Girls on Toast. You can find her work @stone.fruuit on Instagram.