A Funnel for Sound
Jon Chaiim McConnell
Pop it off I tell him. Show me. Let me listen to it. The seam is different every time. This guy’s skin comes off. We’re living together. He leaves his long sheddings over the shower rod now, which is better, since at first I’d find it a bit at a time, like what’s this? (opaque foot patch) or what’s that? (shoulder flake with hairholes). You can tell when it’s about to happen because the features start to slip a bit, and his eyelids can’t keep up with his eyes. I guess things disattach. You can tell about a week ahead of time. When we first started dating I thought these were sarcasms, interest visibly leaving his body.
On trips we bring lotions. At work only his boss knows, and only because they used to date too. Sometimes I find him in a bath of strange pearly water and it’s because it just happened and the open air will sting him for another 40 minutes. I can kneel and breathe on his new neck or his fresh ear and phew does he like it. Not for too long, not at once, but he does.
His parents never bring it up, they never talk about it. I’ll ask them, Hey dry weather we’re having, to ferret out concern, and they’re just, like, nothing. They visit like nothing. Instead of photo albums do they have a weird closet of skins, small to big? Did they sprinkle lavender on the floor of that closet? Their house is decorated, and I say that in the most curious possible way, as if no particular care was taken for this aspect of their son. Carpets are firm and couches are leather. They order coffee after dinners and sit back, like, job well done.