You're [verb ending in -ing] down the [noun] because
it's your [occasion] and he wants to make it special.
You [verb], thinking about all the things you've
been wanting to do with him. [****** act.]
It's [adverb] going to happen.
The [light source] illuminates the [noun] on his left hand.
You think about [slightly kinkier ****** act].
He's [adjective], doing the [noun] in his head
trying to figure out when to get you back [place you don't miss]
before it looks [adjective your mom would use].
I'm [mildly suggestive adjective], you say. We're almost
there, he says. I wanted to take you to get [liquid].
When you step out into the [place], you can smell [unhealthy smell].
It reminds you of [crushing inevitability]. It scares you.
You look at him and his [colour] [plural body part].
Don't [verb], you say.
Let's go, he says.

Told my therapist I was burning
hot and freezing cold at the same time.
Had been for two days since his name
reappeared on Facebook.
"Do we know that he's still living?" she asked.
I said yes. Lied.
I could not consider the alternative.
Will anyone tell me when he dies?

Or will they let him live in my burning, freezing skin forever?

Isn't it funny how sometimes
you don't know who you are until you see it
in someone else?

I had never seen myself performed before,
my reflection moving on its own.
"Who does this guy think he is?
How does he know me?"

Sometimes I wish you did know me.

3:30 pm
i walk to my class early
sun showers outside

i can hear oceans
in my hands pressed to my ears
when white dreads guy talks

i count the minutes
till i can get a word in
without smelling him

"I see you're smirking still." One eyebrow raised,
an accusation of my happiness.
She sees through me: an addict to the praise
and thanks and jabs and jokes at my expense.
My friends are certain I derive almost
a ****** satisfaction from all this.
It's true my heartbeat does betray the ghost
of some attraction straining to exist.
And just what is it that I want to do?
To be with him, my teacher, scandal? Or
just get attention? Or do I love school
enough that it has really bubbled over?

Or maybe when it comes to it, I am
still crawling from my father's clawing hands.

We board on the lazy sea crawler,
us cowards, in tea and cream and glory.
Martha, hands in her hair, in her sweet age;
We lurch, cold, remaining in sweeter earth,
And I into Sam's cloud of august.
We are hearts only bent on fame,
While the ashes of our cousins —
A new lineage in lieu of dirt —
Begs us in their choral aching for a keening.

I always felt older than you, even though you were
forty-eight (but not fifty) years my senior.
My instinct was to put out my arms so you could come
crawling, curling up in my lap, and I could
pet your thinning hair and whisper that I would never
let anything hurt you ever again. Kiss your
soft, shaking hands and shield you from everything.
You would alternate between calling me “Dad”
and calling me “kid.” I was embarrassed to say so, but I
loved it when you did. You were so sad
sometimes, and so nervous when we talked about ***
or our bodies. I didn’t have time to tell you
I could have moved you in a way you weren’t used to,
that the things you were embarrassed by were
okay with me. I wouldn't let you talk about death. So we
talked about Leonard Cohen instead.

And I keep wondering if your wife saw the same
tear stains I saw on the back of your shirt
before I got out of the car. I wonder what you
told her. Does she know the part about love?

God said, “I made you only so you would obey me.”
His voice was something you didn’t hear so much
as feel rumbling in your bones, and sometimes it
made you feel so shaky you could hardly stay standing.
And you and I learned how to fear God,
how to do everything we had to to get by and then
hide our faces, be quiet quiet, and then when we knew
God wasn’t looking we would act it all out on our toys
that weren’t meant for the games we played.
You used to cry more than I did. You were younger.
But not all the tears were sad. Sometimes our
spirits caught fire and we cried because everything was
holy, holy, holy
and we didn’t notice yet how that just meant full of holes.
We didn’t know who God was, even though we already
called him Father. Didn’t know enough to call him Dad.
“Our Father who art standing in the living room with a horse whip,
David be thy name.”
And we prayed for peace.