Red reeds and a freckle of flowers bowing
before rubber wheels
tossing pebbles and sand and a whirlwind of dust.

Their plan had caught wind and taken flight against them,
like an ardent breath that leaps from battle chests
that knowingly march somewhere behind the tall thick of trees.

The rain won the sprint before the inky giants (stuck in the review mirror)
and began to speckle the seats from the gaping sunroof,
but the lovers hadn’t noticed.

Their hearts beat in unison, adrenaline seemingly driving the engine.
Four, bone-white knuckles chocking to hang on:
one pair on the steering wheel, one on the other’s shoulder, and one on the door handle.

The tires drop off and bash themselves against the stones
beneath a spray of clay and water and maggots,
as they swerve off the beaten path.

They wade through the churning waves of grasses
the wind now rushing past, splashing against their spine –
their naked necks and tangled locks swimming in the invisible rapids.

Their sanctuary lay before the whirlpools,
deeply rooted, scarred with letters, scarred with hearts,
and beautifully draped with thin weeping twigs, tied off with lace.

The car’s backend swung as the tires drifted.
The two men flung themselves inside the umbrella of branches,
untied the lacy bows, and drew the curtains closed

The willow tree would have to stand in for their officiant,
for their family, their friends, their honored guests and witnesses,
for they had none.

They both stood in front of the tree as the wind swayed,
once from behind him, and then once from behind him,
all the while their tearful eyes exchanged  silent “I dos”.

The one reached inside a burrow beneath the great trunk,
to retrieve their rings and crowns of flowers,
while the other anxiously stood watch behind him, awaiting the thunder.

Gentle hands ringed their fingers with silver bands,
and crowned their heads with white and blue petals,
then carefully chiseled into the bark their names and their heart with a pocket knife.

The two men pressed their palms to the tree to receive their blessing,
and then pressed their lips together, now salty and wet,
sealing their souls with a slow passionate kiss.

But instead of a burst of rice freely sprinkling the atmosphere
there was a burst of shotgun pellets
tearing through the whispers of love and leaves.

The men sprinted to the car,
dodging the fires of intimidation,
and drove off with their life, leaving behind the fear and shame.

They turned on the heater to try to warm up.
but it was long before they were dry,
the rain’s echo nearly drowning out the sounds of their shared breaths.

Holding a small, bare, baby in the palm of your hand –
          small, fleshy, and lifeless –
                    blue spider webs beneath the cool, pale skin. . .
That’s what I had unearthed,
beneath the watery depths of my name.

We were both on the brink of hypothermia,
slowly dying in the snow by the black creek.
          I found a small hollow of roots beneath a tree,
                    untouched by the white kiss of winter.
I rose to my booted feet, caked in mud.
I splashed, hobbled, and painfully collapsed to my knees,
          my hands cupping the small babe,
as if offering what little we had left to the deaf tree,
before I undressed myself
one arm at a time,
  holding the baby boy up to my bare chest
                    as I pulled my head beneath the collar of my shirt,
                              and flicked the muddy boots off my feet,
                                        and unbuttoned with one hand my wet jeans,
till I was finally naked,
                                        curled up around the small boy who still had a chance.

We huddled there in the ICU beneath the tree
in our small cocoon of earth, snow, and cloth;
and with every exhale, “sorry” escaped my blistered lips.

It was my fault I had found him there
alone and abandoned.

He is the part of me that I feared –
          for and of –
and that I had ripped from inside myself,
leaving it stunted.

But: that cold, saddening, sobering, apologetic embrace
saved my life from being forever incomplete,
and healed the selves
that my actions to protect
had inevitably began killing.

Holding him, that small piece of me,
          the mass of innocence equal to my heart,
holding him is when we became anew.

Today I cherish his fair feminine features
that once puzzled and concerned the mirrors,
and sometimes drape his strong body in dresses
          crowning his mane with wild flowers
so he can twirl and play in the meadow the way he wants .

Today I hold his hand,
          and carry him on my shoulders while he sleeps,
                    slumped, and nuzzled on my head,
as we walk through the world
like a father and son who just finished a day:
          of chasing each other,
                    of wrestling with each other,
                              and of playing hide-and-go-seek for hours.

Today he shows me love and affection
like all men ought to know
like all men ought to show
and teaches me what I had forgotten about myself
          all those years ago.

Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
                         Blue #1,
                                                  and Sucralose, too.

Bend over to spray
                         the rotting road-**** with perfume.

Perfect the recipe
                         for what was fleshed and fruited
                                                  from animals and plants.

Photoshop the starved and diseased
                         with smiles
                                                  and beautiful bodies.

Clothe the *****
                         with lingerie, with heels,
                                                  and with stones.

Paint the roses red.
                         We paint the white roses red.
                                                  We’re painting the white roses red!

a pale shade of pink warms the dead
web of branches
and the grit of brick
behind my back
but inside the shear sweater
the wind seeps
awakening ghosts
that kicks the brittle leaves
and forgotten notes
taunting my skin
like cruel words boys say
coloring the flesh of my breath white
like when we kissed under bleachers
steeping a fear
that you won’t show
that you’ll stay hidden behind a paint-chipped locker
that you’ll stay cold behind your jersey
that I’m not enough to keep you warm

Cold hidden hands holding each other under
        a plaid fleece blanket. . .
Pinkies latching for just a second down
        the cereal aisle. . .
Chests pressing an overdue hug between
        the backs of library books. . .
Shadows snuggling in the back row of
        the dark movie theater. . .
Lips kissing censored by the rain on
        the fogged windshield. . .
And because we’re two men in love, living out
        these innocent acts,
Such displays are still too public for
        you.