i look at my hand as it slips

​

i look at my hand as it slips
into their hole and i think about
how much the hair growing on the back of my hands
has started to follow the patterns on my father’s hands

one night my father asked me
what kind of man i thought i was
since men don’t have pictures of naked men like i do
pinned and framed on my bedroom walls

his sudden realization was like a bullet to the brain
which left a thousand-yard slack-jawed stare in its wake
that i place in my own reflection sometimes
at night when I watch my face morph into his

i watch the way my hand fur curls with cum
dark strands creeping from my wrist
down to my pinky and thumb
vascular veins breaking through toughened skin​

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once again i fall into my feminine ways

after “The Visitors” by Ragnar Kjartansson

 

i feel my friends as patchwork

one-off rooms in a fastened shelter

each their own design but connected 

by framework and foundations 

 

i bathe and hear my friend sing of their heart

splashing water, a metronome of warmth

keeping time with my soapy hands

wet and naked for all to view 

 

there is nothing i desire 

more than having the people 

that compose the strings in my heart

within hands reach

 

we cross rooms

join together outside 

pass the champagne

let lips meet bottle meet lips

 

a march of humble bodies into the horizon

everyone moving to be closer to one another

people crowding to view people 

as they pass from center stage to sunset

 

sitting on the floor 

feeling the heat and press

of your presence beside me

i never want to leave this room

 

​

lime ridge
 

watching his captivated profile golden with the sunset
his eyes drawn upwards
to a hawk suspended in the sky
motionlessly riding an updraft
its eyes flying across a landscape
i hurried to be free of

i am an unforeseen self in my child self’s habitat
i can trace my old footsteps in the dirt
follow them as they grow smaller and more timid
pregnant with the possibility of change

i am grateful to be asked to go back
i have molded myself into a new man
one strong enough to run up a hill to find the way
one whose hairy legs capture the last of the golden hour
one who lingers passing the joint between his fingers and mine

i wish i was man enough to take his hand in mine
put my hand on that golden cheek
feel the warmth of the sun and his smile
tell him how grateful i am for having him here with me