Afterparty

Consider the end, after the party

Look outside and see an orb, stop myself and have a drink

under a purple neon light, where aliens 

have landed, hear the TV static, heads roll back, 

see shadows moving on the wall, a finger in my mouth

belonging to no one, soft hands have never seen a day’s

work. What if an artist has only known comfort? What if a

woman has never known man? Think of god after

a time, when light becomes a house becomes an orb

becomes a desert sky where clouds change how you see

color where color becomes a zealous way of life haunted by

ineffable light. Consider I wanted to believe in the

disgusting body, to want to die while having sex and bleed

the good kind of blood under a hot sun. In Texas, they’re

always talking about big things—big hair, big guns, big

stars. Have you ever stayed up, wired on gas station coffee,

driven toward the desert star? Light turns white,

here the party ends.

Mary Luna is a writer and educator living in western Massachusetts. She is completing her MFA at UMass Amherst. Her writing is forthcoming in the Los Angeles Review, among others.