(for Josh Gilliam)

1. Annunciation
it was april
and i was standing in the window of the cafe
like a whore in the red light district.
the neon sign read “five points espresso”
backwards through the glass
and it was poetry night.
i was on spring break
of my freshman year of college
and i was reading a piece
i’d written to an ex
from birmingham
who i found to be empty
when i scratched him
with one painted fingernail.

and this was back when you could smoke in the cafe–
you remember?
and smoke had filled the cramped sliver of space
though you could only detect its acrid presence
under the light of the espresso bar.
it was in that light that i’d caught sight of him;
his hair was tousled and slightly damp,
he was eating sugar in the raw
straight from the packets.
i read on, of bitterness and betrayal
of the self.
when it was finished
i stood outside in the early summer cool
to catch a breath
and he approached me
as would an angel
announcing the birth
of a beautiful thing
that would change us all.

2. Moses
he took my hand
and said,
“that was beautiful,
what you just said,
you are so cute,
i’m josh,
what’s your name?”
and i saw a fringe of curly hair
climbing from the neck of his t-shirt,
and he took my moist, clammy palm
into his own
and asked me to walk with him.
we were hand-in-hand
as we rounded the dark corner–
the concrete table and benches
held court for roaches scattering
as we walked,
parting them like the red sea.

3. Original Sin
he told me that night that he was sixteen;
i was two years his senior,
and he could pass for my older brother–
sinewy arms, wide expanse of prickly chest,
but that light in his blue eyes
looked so new,
so fresh and young and innocent
but wise…
i learned much later
that he had lied to me,
he was fourteen at that time!
fourteen and had more hair
in more places
than i have at twenty-two.
i felt like cain,
offering an inferior gift to god,
choosing then to rob the young blood
of his breath.

4. The Adversary
we wandered silently past the corner
swallowed in shadow.
the alley was filthy and smelt of sour milk
from the wasted lattes and creamers
though the heat of summer
had not yet created
the fever pitch of odor
that was to come.
walking. hand-in-hand
and now he’s pressing me
against the aluminum siding;
quickly, without chance for thought,
his lips have found mine,
our tongues search out each other
and i swear he must taste my heart
in its cage
as he twists his tongue further,
coiling like that humbled snake.

5. Joseph
i was flushed. bewildered.
this boy appeared like a prophet’s vision
and with no effort at all
he had taken something away from me.
every kiss i’ve had since that night
every hand i’ve held
every walk i’ve taken
they’ve all paled in the company
of that adolescent sweaty evening’s folly.
the april starlight is still reflected
in my eyes
when i touch another man;
it fades as my fingertips remind me,
“he is not the one,
the one who stole that moment
from you.”
a deceiving boy’s touch
and tongue
and breath
has been my coat of many colors,
i wear it still
seated in this pit
into which i was tossed
for its beauty.

6. Lot’s Wife
he took lithium.
it was prescribed by his mother’s doctor.
he hated it. so did i.
this pill made him stony,
untouchable,
it put early end to those sweaty tumbles
on his impossibly small bed
dumbbells and skateboarding magazines
littered underneath it.
we kissed forever
it seemed,
so much of you
is sweat-soaked t-shirts
and dirty fingernails
and five o’clock shadow
in my memory.
you appeared, disappeared,
reappeared,
pulling on my hairless chest
from the inside, out.
i wept when you looked back —
you were drugged, muted,
like a pillar of salt.

7. Crucifixion
that first night
i was wearing my pentacle,
a gift from a priestess;
yes i was a heathen
to worship at your warmth.
you slipped the pendant
glittering silvery star
over my head and placed it
around your own neck.
in return you gave me a small glass cross,
a grain of rice inside
bore your name like stigmata,
its own torturous miracle.
i wore it flat against my smooth breast
tucked under my shirt as i waited tables
for sunday brunch.
your smell and taste and memory
were the three nails that held me
to that cross, that morning.

8. The Tree of Life
you never stayed where i wanted you;
you lingered instead in the land of nod
just out of my field of vision
save for a few scattered appearances
between two states.
we romanced off and on
for how many years?
it seems like an eternal life.
only once did i touch you less than innocently–
another sweaty month, july it must have been,
we were in somebody’s kitchen and there was
some clumsy sincere groping
before we drove to little five points,
which was to be the last place
i’d ever see you.
you shaved your head,
ran away,
hopped a train
got a girlfriend
and blazed a fiery trail
through my emotional landscapes.
i am scarred beautifully by your memory;
i may just live forever
having brought the fruit to my lips,
but never tasting.