and that selfsame fire returned to haunt
wounded me, oh-!
and for what:
just these hands,
just this boiling skin.
that i had hoped to be reborn, foolish,
imagined the wound of her side
wreathed with flame:
the single time my father threatened
to beat me he called me princess.
such accidents, on the office playground
a boy fallen from his high tower of the slide,
he broke his arm-
it could have been worse.
we did not see him fall,
our backs were turned, so
it could have been men with roving hands,
at the party or at the lake
in his high tower-
what more do we need to disavow?
we are men what appear to be,
and women only
if our mouths stay closed
or open silently for searching touches
that find what they seek.
some parade, this procession!
a funeral march for all the boys that
could have become something else,
to disavow-
his hands on her throat:
their backs were turned then too-
i am sorry that one could be
punished for this- and what harm?
just these dark dreams,
no matter-