Poem for Chris
 
 
I went to sleep screwed by childhood
big sloppy kisses all over my cunt.
He has a adamant grip as he sleeps
skin baby soft and hair
baby soft

Sugar images, boys behind the barn smoking, scuffing the butts into
the dirt, thumbs hanging off wallets on chains, grass blade whistles
that you chew until the green is gone and then spit out.
He still sweats clean, his stickiness doesn't sour like mine.

And though he was an age of consent he looked
fourteen and I dreamt
myself Humbert at brunch, cooking him an enamored omelet
cutting green beans against my thumb with a cleaver.
A grand calvacade in the kitchen smoking
from cigarette holders drinking mimosas and
saying what a darling boy you have.
I want to make him cry.

Now the late morning sun seeks him along with my fingers
I lean toward that incalescent moment
keeping taboo under my tongue
like a bead an earring back a screw
so I don't lose it
my new status
pederast.