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
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.
There’s a smoking gun in my hand, warm
to the touch but all I can think of
is breakfast, watching you make yourself coffee. You’ve stopped
offering me a cup a long time ago since I kept saying no anyway.
But yes, I’m thinking of breakfast but also I think there’s a dead body
in front of me. This is a dream
isn’t it? In this dream I am chasing you
and watching you go inside my old house’s bathroom to kiss
another man who snuck into the house. I know it’s been so long since
you touched me
like you missed it, but in this dream I don’t think about that at all,
all I can see is you telling me to go away
and my hand is looking for a gun I didn’t know
was even there.
I’m not sure I shot the guy in the dream. I’m not even sure if I shot you.
But the gun’s heft stays
in my hand when I open my eyes, only
to see you making coffee, touching the mug
like a missed lover you just found.