there are boys and then there are boys —men walking between the thighs of a creek.
In a creek, all men are made into animals.
If I speak for my brother,
I must walk on water,
and drown the beast of my mind.
In Utica, New York, the pigeons mount each other
despite bread being split open and thrown their way.
I understand sex.
The undressing of a mountain.The dance the pastor dances at the altar.
My brother naming God as he wrestles, yes, an angel.
It is said, Jesus killed fleas to save his dog.
Even a boy must perform acts of sadism.
My brother performs an act of a sadist king.
He bites my fingers to speak.
The congregation watches the pastorspread a boy
across the floor like jelly. There is a gasping — a rain of fire,
a blockage in my brother’s throat — a subtle mercy
of a boy’s teeth touching air.
The pastor rides stillness as the body decays from a moment into the next.
the pastor peel my brother’s wound like an apple.He’s now a fruit —
prophesied to outlive Adam.
I am burning like a bronze statuecast to the temperament of God.
In the prose of morning, I wake to utter: I know, we’re holy.
We’re holy, I know. Dance more than necessary.
I once shoved wind into my brother’s mouth,
whispered in his ear, “The kingdom of God is a wild animal.”
On Judgment Day, when asked if I understood pleasure;I answered no.
Have you given to the pastor? — I answered yes.
I’ve loved, yes.
On certain days, I read the Psalms, and grow anxious.
Jesus must give again what he has already given.
Maybe he must kill another flea
to save the earthinside his body.
The creek brings men
who baptize bodies of boys.
I carry wine for a boy who mirrors water.
I forget how to wash my own hands.
