crawl inside my shirt
between my sheets
into my new lover’s mouth
Stitch him to me with your smoke thread needle.
When he sighs and says
I love the way you smell
I know that he means you
a secret lush and irresistible.
Sex halo tiger-striped across my neck
behind my ear
or licked across my body
where my man is sure to find you
fist of ghostly flowers
drooling sweaty god of teenage arms
the chaste mischief of businessmen
wiped under shirt cuff, coveting
the lust of office gossip
nostalgia is a hired thug and you
his private knife
at a shotgun wedding
raining down like rice.
For a moment, body slips and hums
until you’re only open. Only fuck.
You become this.
Anything will do; a wand, a man, your own stiff fingers.
30 seconds. Less. All that fights goes mute, and flesh
is everything. But you know flesh is always everything, don’t you?
Stop trying to forget.
Watch now—you dissolve, a shadow
as you crawl away. Watch now, from above.
The searing of the nostrils, burning plastic blessing.
Sweet slack jaw welcome him, his hot tongue
in your mouths.
A golden moment, you’re an open door.
A gasping warm.
A loosened snare.
Next, yourself, slammed back into raw meat
bound inside your messy hogtied little slaughter.
Last month I switched back to Old Spice
when the pharmacy was selling it at 2 for 1.
I wore it for a couple of days, then
looking for a shirt to wear, I grabbed one
off the floor, and traces of the new scent lingered.
It was like another man was living in my house.
Like in the hotel room when I left my briefs
draped on the doorknob, I could almost feel
his weight beside me in the bed, smooth
halo of chalk around my body.
Once drawn, some lines cannot be crossed.
There are places loneliness can only take you
when you’re patient. There are ways
that only I will love and hate my body.
SMALL MEN IN SMALL ROOMS
The little man is in my little bed and cradling
his suddenly limp little dick.
To rasp, I want to fuck you, and then choke—
this is the first thing he’s done tonight that isn’t boring.
I turn on the bedside lamp.
His wet eyes shimmer in the light.
A lover tumbles from his little mouth.
He would be so sad he sighs to know
that I am here
The little man climbs out of bed. Puts on his little shoes.
It is almost sunrise
when the door closes behind him.
I imagine you are somewhere
waking up and stretching
squinting in the early morning light, your body, smooth
and slender as a glass of chocolate milk
poured down the sink
I realize I am just remembering you as you were
that morning, years ago in Rome—
naked, wrapping yourself in my cardigan
to roll tobacco mixed together with a little hash
and smoking out the open window
with your back to me
then your long arm reaching towards me
offering me the smoldering joint
with a whispered haze of sweat
my sweater sliding from your back
You were never really mine, but it was wild, once
to toy with the idea
Now when little men arrive in me, I feel you
Taste the cheap tobacco on your breath
The slow pour of your mouth across my neck
like olive oil poured across the loaf of bread
we broke with dirty hands
The white roses I bought you from a cart
You would be so sad to know
that I am here