I did not want to let go, swinging him
endlessly about my messy space.
I think of him as someone I have not
finished exploring, and this is wrong.
He is just as the animals I love.
I sneak in his room, tuck myself
inside his idiosyncrasies--touch of
hair, slight embrace, fake smile, blood.
I have been affirmed by his fear.
The best moments of recency
were spent close to his chest.
Reality suspends in his steps,
the tight clothes that paint his
frame, the artistic revolting scream.
He is the god of my sick religion,
my muscles if I could not hold bone,
the river that i slowly die within.
But water only brings life. He is
real and whole and tears and ink
and hours of under appreciated sweat.
He is a cradle for the baby that lay
swaddled in his mind, the perfect
symbol of hope for me--all of us.
