In the end, all the men I know turn
out to be just that: men. How they hurl
fear under fists raw. Their kempt torsos
stay shy of softness. For him I grew
two mouths so I could be hole without.
He said, “All that matters is you
can suck with at least one of those.”
but listen. Listen: I too have bent over
bodies: made them mine by my mouth
tungsten taste of possession cool & hard
on this tongue. I too have wept & then
on turning salt to storm, been praised for it.
Reader, let me never become any kind of man
I’ve ever known but listen: teach me this wanting
Visual Art: Allana Clarke, Untitled Self-Portrait 2.