He asked me for my name
and so I told him that I had
lost it long ago, once men
stopped calling me by it.

I told him that my father
only knew neck-ties and
employment binds;
that love and men only exist

together in the breathing spaces
between wars. I told him
that the Americans own
the canyons, and the Chinese

may learn to mine the moon,
but this heart is too full of wine
to ever find room for a man.
He looked confused by my lack

of desire, and claimed that life
must have long left my rusted
veins behind. I told him that
I sleep with the radio, and I

spend nights with the poets'
******-babble and misplaced
hope. I told him of meditation
and coffee shops and Sunday mornings

stretched out with biographies,
and the rain grazing my bleached
skylight. I told him that some
pleasure can out-live an ******,

and that physical love is just
finding your favourite place to sit.
Yes, I told him all of this,
as he laid me out on the bed.