Still embarassed if my mother sees my drunk,
I sodomise months away, and collect joy.
And the ramparts of joy: the silence of lips
as one looks on them instead of staring eyes.
This little man—let me remove months apart—
glances the morningshine into me,
and I reflect back mere mirrors of him.
What antidote to his love do I bother bearing?
And this bearer of mine, the square
to my circle, easy-bearing as a drunk
whether drunk or not, but perpetually,
as if in translation of a language
that will not bear bargaining to die,
will not also bear my loving this boy—
the hallucination perhaps my brain
dares die in, and revolt in bargaining back
my nude neurons harkening back for their
own dear boy who dared bear them—
I will mark him on his forehead.
My teeth are clean but they are spread
far apart, so I smile for him.