I saw two grown men cry this week.

heaving their bodies, weighted with wails

my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son

my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret

I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace

I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger

we are one

in the ember I hear

we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me

my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men

and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin

and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry

and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island

he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too