Portrait of a Boy on the Other Side of a Glory Hole
Most wounds are circles, so it’s no surprise
you’ll find me here. Alone. On my knees, on evenings
when the moon hangs low. The brown boy
behind the hole—not quite the size
of a cave or a cigarette burn. Splitting open
my lips the way a saint parts his mouth to banish thirst
or famine or to greet his flock. I have stories
and sadness to share, known men
who moan like injured dogs, others like horses
off to the glue factory. Their dignified shape
reduced by the deep vermilion of my rim.
I used to be scared. Eyes locked to the heavens.
My trembling voice wrapped around their hard-ons.
They only feel me through the hollow space
they briefly occupy. I am all mouth. Cavities and throat.
Obedient. Never see, never touch.
Some call for Jesus as if that were my name.
I have lost so much around here.
