He’s snoring; a light gasp.
Soon it’ll be morning
and we’ll back in our masks.
My leg kicked his during my nightmare.
The old one where someone in charge tells me
I’m wrong and I’ll die for it.
He reached out to rub my knee,
his touch soft like feathers.
Who’s black or white in this world?
He’s dangerous. So am I.
All these labels; I’ve killed too.
I’m sleeping with a gray man
who relies on wits and weapons.
This plan to ally with Fett
to save my friends is ultimately selfish.
Gray man meet gray woman.
I can’t run fast enough
over the line I just leapt over.
What’s up with this pile of real books
all around the bed?
I peg him as a psychological horror fan,
especially after he told me
I’m the scion of the most feared
man in the galaxy.
Maybe I love Han Solo, but something broke
out of me during the long wait—
For six months I stalked Fett,
memorized the strange symbols on his light green armor,
studied the tilt of his bucketed head,
learned his native tongue, imagined piloting
Slave I with him through black holes and quasars,
jealous of the freedom and wealth
he collects in his canvas pouches.
The richest man in the galaxy owns one suit.
How do you sleep with someone?
Stay close or spread out?
I wish someone had told me.
How do you sleep with the man
who sold Han to the highest bidder—twice?
Six months ago my mind scrolled
through twenty scenarios
of how we’d meet—I’d hit his jaw and then
his hunter’s hands would guide down my hips
while his lips slipped in mine.
Those same hands cradle the rifle
he holds like a newborn. I want
to cook him breakfast; scrambled eggs in red spice.
No. His palate probably prefers rations,
nothing too sweet or spicy.
I want him to burn through me again,
painting his salt on my legs, belly and back.
He’s my scar that won’t fade.
Boba must be caught in a bad dream,
so it’s my turn to kiss his shoulder;
hover and hold until his muscles go limp.
I’m done with waiting.