How long ago was it, that I saw
Tom get married? More than
thirty years? I did not then
self-identify as gay, though understood
I could not express contempt
for the bride in the same way
as the others. Tom really loved me
but somehow the ferocity in my gut,
the dark turn my blood took,
was different. Chaotic harmony
to our conversation, grace in our brimming
banter. I would dream of Tom coming
to me in the tub, swathing my wrists
and feet in yards of snowy bandages.
His sister Michelle wore a lethal red
dress (scalding the air like poppies)
to the reception. Female stream
auguring flagrant, blinding intimacy.
Even I the pathetic queerboy, who’d
yet to nurse another cock, could tell
how exquisite she was, far beyond
my grasp or caress of any man.
You can tear away every tatter
until there is nothing but your raw,
ridiculous flesh, you can scour
your conscience till she knows
every shameful crime that blackens
you like ash. You can murmur prayers
at her miraculous crux, worship
her nipples so delicately the chills
will bring her closer to the grave.
We reach and we reach, aching
to swim in that lunar placenta,
drench our gorilla hide in milky
song of undiluted mercy. She will never
tell you that uncomplicated smile is
stifling disappointment. That we are
grubby, thick-headed altar boys, sloshing
sloppy fluids at the communion
of the most high.