In the Lives of Men, There's No Golden Paint
Twice a week the midnight expressionist
scrubbed his oils. Perhaps a sleepless
Mondrian, self-conscious as thinning rope.
Wet forays meditated in patter.
Chromatic juxtapositions gave him
no custardy hint of relationships.
Things modulated with respect to some
practical girl. His still-lifes meant nothing:
bottles, flea markets, a few bars of soap.
A childhood returned this morning.
Mother dragging us needy and feral-
haired. It's my older cousin on top,
drained inside of me, yesterday's
first man. Desire like water pumping.
Nights he sailed into me. Enlisted,
I was 10. Pain along the shoals. But how
could I fend off familiar skin, with what:
my almost fists, my obedient holes?