Hot Pot Magazine

By Gosha Gusev

Standing in a bookshop in Chinatown, re-reading
Twenty love poems, I am a voyeur. Watching
the words stretch out across the page,
I imagine how it might feel to write them.
 
You’re always pessimistic about art.
I like that, and that sometimes in museums
I say stupid, simple things for you to smile
like you’ve lost your train of thought.
 
You don’t get why I like the way you see
the world. I never could quite find the words:
I said you’re like a camera, once. You glanced
at me like I was crazy. I think you laughed.
 
But see, you take the world in, give it contrast.
I like the graininess of you, the faded edges.
Sometimes the shots don’t leave your darkroom:
I want to pull them out, to dip my hands into
 
your chemicals—you’d say this metaphor’s too much.
I know. I wish I could show you Neruda, and laugh
because he’s way too horny. I wish you’d let me
peer over your shoulder. I want to see through you.
 
I could send you one of these poems, but that feels
like an intrusion. I leave Neruda undisturbed,
emerging into gray New York. It’s a warm winter.
I can’t remember the last time I was truly cold.

Gosha Gusev is a poet from New York and elsewhere. He recently graduated from MIT. In his other life, he studies math, which is its own kind of poetry.