untitled xix
the only time my boyfriend got fucked
in the ass on a bed and had it matter
was in 2004, a hookup or date he took
in his room and gave a shuddering to. my
now-lover’s heart shuddered
at his bedmate’s bliss. it’s strange to figure
it out, reasons why he rarely lets you fuck
him and only when he’s drunk, or sad, or how it’s so
hard to convey the truth that the only reason
you want to take him like that is because
you only
want
to make his heart shudder.
look at my grubby hands,
clasping for more. but i guess old
imprints die hard—that man left his thumbprints,
an ethereal handmark all over him,
but yes i have to agree, these imprints
take a long time to scrub off. i think they do,
but i might be wrong.
sometimes i think of the boy who flew
into orange skies and wrote a poem about
richard siken that may or may not have been
about me. i think if the universe had changed
its hand, neither of us would have to write sad
poems, and my lover would find his joy.
shuddering, at long last.
