a great return, as I predicted,
like a king. With your crown, your laurels,
your broad shoulders and back,
your hands in your pockets, your face
hard-browed and blond as an SS guard.
*he is a slave to his masculinity
he has you, he has had you
and still, you’re no necessity*
Some sort of resurrection,
less like spring and more like remission.
A disease that I had chased like a rat
deep into my bones, now
creeps back to its hole in my chest.
*you’ve seen his big artillery
bombs dropped, missiles flew
and still, you’re no necessity*
Like an old rag dinging out of
a player piano. Off-key and tinny,
on an endless loop for the better part of a year.
I know the words to this song,
they go: he wants you not, he needs you not.
*he owes you no apology
boys will be boys, it’s what they do.
he is a slave to his masculinity*
But I have written him stories.
I have given him children,
a flat with tall windows and sunlight,
I have given us breakfasts and coffees,
funerals and weddings, I have given us.
*he gave you one perfect memory
his pale skin in the pre-dawn blue,
but still, you were no necessity*
I have taken them away.
Perhaps his room is white, cell-like,
empty walls. With a mattress on the floor,
for the king with his pride and
laurel wreath, no use for memories of me.
*Let me write you the last story
he had you once, and now he’s through
he is a slave to his masculinity
and girl, you’re no necessity*
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
a great return, as I predicted,
like a king. With your crown, your laurels,
your broad shoulders and back,
your hands in your pockets, your face
hard-browed and blond as an SS guard.
*he is a slave to his masculinity
he has you, he has had you
and still, you’re no necessity*
Some sort of resurrection,
less like spring and more like remission.
A disease that I had chased like a rat
deep into my bones, now
creeps back to its hole in my chest.
*you’ve seen his big artillery
bombs dropped, missiles flew
and still, you’re no necessity*
Like an old rag dinging out of
a player piano. Off-key and tinny,
on an endless loop for the better part of a year.
I know the words to this song,
they go: he wants you not, he needs you not.
*he owes you no apology
boys will be boys, it’s what they do.
he is a slave to his masculinity*
But I have written him stories.
I have given him children,
a flat with tall windows and sunlight,
I have given us breakfasts and coffees,
funerals and weddings, I have given us.
*he gave you one perfect memory
his pale skin in the pre-dawn blue,
but still, you were no necessity*
I have taken them away.
Perhaps his room is white, cell-like,
empty walls. With a mattress on the floor,
for the king with his pride and
laurel wreath, no use for memories of me.
*Let me write you the last story
he had you once, and now he’s through
he is a slave to his masculinity
and girl, you’re no necessity*
Request permission to use this poem