Can I Tell You



by WLS





what it will be like for men

to take from you. How you

will hold your body toward them

like a plate of food, your eyes

bone-white. Empty bowls.

How you will want not to,

but your fingers will fumble

to turn on the burner

every time. I will give you

the answer. The neural path

cut by grief. You won’t have time

to lose a thing. Never alone.

Peering into empty storefronts,

hands cupped to siphon the light.

You will see buds again. Hungry,

green fingers that try, like you.

You will ride the bus and no one

will ask, where is home? You will turn

small circles in the public square

day-long, looking behind each bush

for a soft, brown bed between

the fronds. No one will ask,

have you found it? It will always

be this way: hard and long.

The dream of an easy childhood

woke long ago, rubbing its

eyes in a pot-holed parking lot.

Where he touched you

beneath your diaper. Before

you had a word for pleasure.

Before you had a word for air.





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