Your face like a stomach in winter, all nauseous with snow.
Your face vulnerable as Hades and you drinking until your abdomen cramps up like a manmade lake.
Your face is not at all shadow.
Your face is wide and open as summer curtains. and hurt as shot wolf.
Dead wolf. My uncle eats wolf for breakfast. I take you to meet my uncle on a Sunday morning. He prays before we eat. Your face is cratered with doubt. I take your hand and I squeeze it underneath the table, hard as the statue of a god.
Later in winter our hands are squeezing gods underneath a blanket in somebody else’s living room. After that outside with dark and ice and sidewalk. Your mouth and my mouth and your arms and my arms and we are trying to stand up straight.
You are the wrong boy. Every boy is the wrong boy. I go to sleep in mornings and wake up late afternoons, in dreams I am screaming to gods I’ve never prayed to. When I wake up I am sick to my stomach. Always with a bloated stomach, my body always part of a ****** battle that you seem no longer to want to be a part of.