Faraway, men float mid-air

for falling in love. They neck

in the dark and are neck-tied

by dawn. Faraway seems relative,

or it could be synonymous

for home. Behind closed doors

I watch personal emergencies

fornicate with national ones.

Time tickles the sensitive spots

on the screen. I feed it data raw.

In return, it regurgitates news

of contemptible legislation

intermixed with light-hearted memes.

I fully fear a forthcoming genocide

yet giggle violently at dog videos.

One tooth-grins like a politician,

another howls like a siren.

How thin is the line between self-care

and survival, between deep-

seeded dread and baseline existence?

Each facet of waking life is its own

uroboros. Billions of snakes

deep throating themselves into oblivion.

History is a sinning serpent disguised

as a common creature of human habit.

I too repeat and repeat and repent.

For penance, I play fairytale with fate.

Look! I am the wonder-wisped hair

of a window-lit damsel. I am 

the king’s son, not wanting

to make assumptions, but assuming

anyway—that the lady’s locks

are waiting for the rest of her body

to follow its falling.

I’m sorry. I feel faraway again.

Intrusive thoughts are pinging my phone.

I scroll and scroll and wonder

where in the world progress lies. I imagine

a place of levitation, a land 

where mid-air insinuates freedom. 

Never once have I consented 

to choke play. There is

something far too familiar

about an executioner’s hands.

Adam Gianforcaro is the author of the poetry collection Every Living Day (Thirty West Publishing House, 2023). His poems can be found in The Offing, Poet Lore, Third Coast, Northwest Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Delaware.