The Dock

No one wants to go near the lake 

that swallowed two more boys

this year. Sad story, yes, but we’re thankful 

to have a pretty place to be discreet.

Not saying a basement can’t be pretty, 

and don’t get me wrong, I am a fan

of the mass-produced hotel art,

the same photo hanging above each bed

makes it easier to pretend each new room 

is still our room, makes me crave a life

of dull decor and basic cable, makes my mouth 

water, really. I bite the lips off of a Styrofoam cup

and spit them at the ducks that swim past.

Wait. Don’t eat that. Fuck.

This is the first time I hear him laugh out loud. 

With him, there are few noises I can recognize.

A fly lands on his cheek and I try to brush it 

away, but before my hand can cast

a shadow on the bridge of his nose,

the fly burrows into him. He doesn’t flinch,

just winks—and now there’s one on his knee, 

and another lands in his dimple, one on each

eyelid. There are hundreds now, all digging 

or moving underneath his skin, all bubbling

behind that firm smile. His eyes begin

to vibrate, and he doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t

need me here, really. I am no expert, or exorcist, 

or great love. I am just another boy sitting

an arm’s length away from someone he doesn't recognize 

in the light. He opens his mouth and they all fly out,

not a swarm, but a single-file line, a thin braid of black

hair, the longest exhale from a sinking car—That’s it.

There. That’s the noise I’m so familiar with.