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
Leaves.
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