Because we were boys,
I could only touch you in the dark.
Where we pretended the sins
promised by our fathers
could not find us.
In the path of trembling hands,
the hair on our thighs rose
against the night, and I dreamed
the extraordinary things
light would do to the parts I touched:
tuft of hair, silk of foreskin, the wet pearl
emerging from its sheath.
As I tasted myself inside your mouth,
the breath’s warm blooming,
as those fig leaves lay torn by our feet,
somewhere, someone was beginning to sing.
I had to touch my lips
to know that hymn was mine.
*Originally published in PANK*