Meg Pokrass

I tell him he can watch, but he joins in. I wake up imagining him lying next to his wife. He comes here for something wild, our little game. I make him grunt. Later, we'll grill chops.
On Thanksgiving he calls me at midnight to say I remind him of an Al Green song, though he can't remember the tune -- it's driving him crazy. He's lost his appetite, his scalp itches, he can't sleep. What's happening? he whispers. It's chasing him, he says. I tell him everything will be OK because I remember a few Al Green tunes. I start one, and he joins. Little boxes of metal next to our ears are singing, glowing in the dark.