J.B. Kalf

We’ve gone to first base three nights prior. Now, the second date. I take Him to the quill shop to see Him sneeze. I want to see if His orgasmic face would satisfy. Would appease me in bed. Squinch up and snort and curl of a lip and folds of skin and the loud ACHOO. I rub the feathers against His nose. Try this. Flight feathers of a goose. Try this. Shedding of a black swan. He is unagitated. He dips ink and writes nonsense on blank papers. Tests out the flow. Small fingers on the hollow shaft of the pen. The fragmented blue and green eyes of a peacock. His clean nails. Try this He says and lifts a quill to my face. Rubs it back and forth beneath the nostrils (strange absence of smell). I sneeze into His mouth. And He smiles, with teeth and a heightened chest aroused and blushing red. And now He is trying to get me to test out the quill pens. He is rubbing one out on my nose, feather after feather, thinking of the various soft and agile feathers hidden in pillowcases: pigeons, lapwings, and turkeys all the weight of a soul.