On the blacktop, along the track, against
the gym’s bricks, somewhere, you said,
I teased you in middle school, some-
where, relentlessly, you said. Are you gay
yet? You were seated in a circle I’d run
in, who used strange language: brown,
white, blow, bars, bud, 8-ball, triple-Cs. A
sophomore. I’m not fucking gay, Zach.
Dre gave you an out, keeping you in
the closet, Yeah, we did it. Okay. Then
you admitted it. We were in your parents’
kitchen with so much plastic stacked
in that fetid sink, and apple cores, cheese,
Camel filters floating in the Tupperware.
Don’t smoke inside, you said, I really hate it
when she smokes inside. Your father, in his
dent in the yellow, cushioned couch,
collected unemployment, shook his head,
Faggots through browning teeth. He had
a habit with watches, collected second
hands, spun gears into and out of place.
I blew my smoke out the window
in your bare bedroom. You taught me
to cut my own hair with a Bic razor
by pressing my thumb against the blade
at the nape of your neck. The less pressure,
the more texture you get. Thanks for taking
pictures of me on the playground,
costume earrings, knock-off Swarovski;
a faded turtleneck cut across the chest;
my adolescent armpit hair exposed as I
hung off the monkey bars; you smeared
the lipstick across my face; I kept my eye-
liner straight; our hair was magnificent,
Baron, thick, dry, unruly curls. Thank you
for offering me the needle, even though
I turned you down. You called me the only
man who could take heroin or leave it.
Mainly, you took it, in the backseat of
my Blazer, making your fix, we kissed
for the first and only time at the red light.
I just want you to feel good. I didn’t. Your
name is written in thin, circular stains
at the base of every spoon I eat from.
You come back to me in stages; I don’t
know who you are. Even the playground
only looks like you at night when nearby
sirens bore and skinny dogs get kicked
in the ribs. We could make it so you don’t
feel like the inside of a cheek ground into
sidewalks, Baron. There are so many clean
walls where I live now. I’ve got computers.
You could use them.

poetry-magazineFingers on a Gay Man

poetry-magazineFor Baron B.

Fingers on a Gay Man

For Baron B.