by Abby Cothran Jairo Alzate Henry traces the curve of my naked spine with his index finger. His hands are sparkplugs; electric currents flow from his fingertips like he’s made of metal. I blow smoke out of the window that looks out over I-35. His eyes are golden hour; I am bathed in amber light when he looks at me. It dizzies. I could have loved him. This is to say that I won’t. We gaze out on the headlights on the highway like f