Alec Solomita

With thanks to Leah Xue

There’s a sensuality I find difficult to access.
It’s like finding my way around a hospital
with its five linked buildings and seventeen levels
and eighty-eight elevators and corridors beyond
count. I think it might be in neurology, but an
old friend says it’s more likely in psychiatric
gerontology. Wheelchairs roll by, and strolling,
shining doctors young as gods, for whom all
is accessible. In the Brain Fit Club, the women
are beautiful and wear fetching outfits
except for the receptionist who, like a lot of old
bats, looks mean as a least weasel, but says to
me as I wait for a printout, “Glad they decided
against the Olympics?” “Yes.” “I would’ve
left town.” “I think a lot of us would,” I say,
adding, “There’s a sensuality I find difficult
to access.” She looks up. “Tell me about it.”

Alec Solomita has published fiction in The Adirondack Review, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and elsewhere. Recently, his poetry has appeared in 3Elements Literary Review, MadHatLit, Turk’s Head Review, Literary Orphans, and, forthcoming, Bloodstone Review, Silver Birch Press, and Fulcrum: An International Anthology of Poetry and Aesthetics. He lives in Somerville, Mass.

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