^{after George Abraham}

My mouth is all wrong answers. I know what happens if
I speak & vanish the question marks on every slur.
I dream his lips against mine. Chapped. Red as an exit.

                                       ▼

I speak & vanish the question marks on every slur.
I dream his lips against mine, chapped red as an exit.
He still calls himself straight even after we fuck.

                                       ▼

I dream his lips against mine, chapped-red. As an exit
he still calls himself straight even after we fuck
& I vanish in his bed. Years later, I’ll prove him right.

                                       ▼

He still calls himself straight. After we fuck
in his bed—I vanish. Years later, I prove him right.
Unfaggot his past. The first girl to redden his sheets.

                                       ▼

I vanish in his bed. Years later, I’ll prove him right—
unfaggot his past. The first girl, I redden his sheets,
still, he calls me boy & my half-buried name.

                                       ▼

His unfaggoted past—the first girl to redden his sheets.
Still, he calls me boy & my half-buried name;
my body, always center stage. The subject of debate.

                                       ▼

Still, he calls me boy & half-buried. My name,
my body, always center stage, the subject of debate;
this is not a metaphor—though I wish it was.

                                       ▼

My body is always center stage, the subject of debate.
This is not a metaphor, though I wish it was:
the wedding band; that night; thin bruise of gold.

                                       ▼

This is not a metaphor, though I wish it was:
the wedding band—a night-thin bruise of gold
a promise we know we can’t keep making.

                                       ▼

The wedding band—a night-thin bruise of gold
promise. We know we can’t keep making
brides of each other nightly & divorcing in the sun.

                                       ▼

A promise: we know we can’t keep making
brides of each other nightly & divorcing in the sun,
we all know the score, one of these boys must die.

                                       ▼

Brides to each other nightly, divorced in the sun—
we know the score. One of these boys must die.
No one in this poem would even recognize my face.

Which windowpane are you beating your wings against today?
I am not as stubborn as you: I am flying straight into that delicious fire.

Buckets of bubbling tar and champagne await us at the Blue Chalet.
Do you skip like this because you have been invited into our hopping choir?

I am not as stubborn as you: I am flying straight into that delicious fire.
I thought you were going to the theater in your new cabriolet.

Do you skip like this because you have been invited into our hopping choir?
Yes, I do know the difference between a martini and a matinee.

I thought you were going to the theater in your new cabriolet.
They say that the latest strain hiding in the shadows is a yellow vampire.

Yes, I do know the difference between a martini and a matinee.
You have your subdivisions and high rises, while I have my dumpy shire.

They say that the latest strain hiding in the shadows is a yellow vampire.
Don’t worry—my ancestors are sewn up in overcoats and on full display.

You have your subdivisions and high rises, while I have my dumpy shire.
When it comes to curry and gin, I say: “Let’s wallow in Combray.”

Don’t worry—my ancestors are sewn up in overcoats and on full display.
Which windowpane are you beating your wings against today?

When it comes to curry and gin, I say: “Let’s wallow in Combray”
Buckets of bubbling tar and champagne await us at the Blue Chalet.