The circle breaks—scooting back, we open a space for her.

Social labels dissolve in Ukrainian vodka, bottled freedom, sleek as a jet-stream on raspy tongues.

ABOVE THE SMOKING DOG PUB BY KENT NEAL 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 130

Tonight, raclette cheese melts

in triangular trays. Itineraries crisscross—

friends from Finland and Vanuatu,

Togo and Tobago. We peel, then slice

boiled potatoes. Social labels

dissolve in Ukrainian vodka, bottled freedom,

sleek as a jet-stream

on raspy tongues. Strands of cheese

stick to bits of meat, form a web,

tying separate pieces together. Humor

warms the hardness of indifference, softens it.

Gusts of laughter migrate

through us. A latecomer

places air kisses on each cheek,

uncoils a scarf. The circle breaks—

scooting back, we open a space for her.

KENT NEAL

Creation isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity for me. I try to write every day. Poem making requires a fusion of mind, body, and soul. When I get stuck, running water helps. So I do the dishes, take a shower, walk along the Saone River in Lyon, France where I live. My work explores same-gender desire, homophobia, expat experiences, and gender expectations. Originally from the west coast of the United States, I’ve been living in France for more than 20 years. kentneal.com