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Low Pile Fragments

by J.D. Gevry

Low Pile Fragments

The words are plucking right there at my teeth

crowded inside standing nervously like

nape hairs that have known Fear before

Sitting in crossed-leg confession to my

best blanket friend:

a gay late night after-party : memory fractures

drunken, naked hot tub departure when they find out; start in

not a real man : pussies are gross : we can’t sit in this

dirty water

i see my hands on the carpet— low pile, beige carpet—

see them tensed, weight bearing

raw knee abrasions; scarred for months. gonorrhea from

… where?

i see my hands on the carpet

Someone is kneeling behind me

someone enters the room, sees


resisting force. Someone’s hips pounding as cocained hearts; i’m there i’m not there i see my hands on the carpet : bang bang bang bang ecstasy and booze? drugged? immobile. i feel nothing. Just

my hands

low pile carpet

: In silence he bends at the waist

burrowing his bald head in my lap; a monk in wordless prayer. I was the boy burying his feelings

arm’s-length underground, so our sorrow would not have a chance to grow

I gathered his heaviest pieces in my arms, those dampened elder tulips split open

with the dwindling rains of spring

And we danced to shift weight

We fell into each other, there in the day-lit room

holding my hand through full-body pleasurequakes

crafting a juxtaposition: Then and Now wide as my

weary, wintered sea


He knew


but said not a word

just kissed me in his arms

and loved away what hurt

just loved it all away

* Previously published in Flush Left


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