looks me in the mess and holds it
[looks at all this wound and still holds me]
when i arrive in their city i trail behind
me [and try to hide by stuffing
into my mouth] this whole week with
bloody gums [which makes me a clumsy
kisser] but my partner who asks me how
much water i drank today
[every day] still tells me i’m cute.
my partner with the high voice
and wide wrists promises to bring me
[my ex’s head in their teeth / or,
a hundred cop-scalps / or,] breakfast.
when i leave, the middle-schoolers
outside my job won’t stop yelling
faggot like the concrete’s never had
that shit bounce off and shard
against it before. i was faggot when
i was 13 and i am still faggot now
and scared these children will see my face
remember a faked-out punch swung
into my gay-ass laugh like an adult i trust
has just told me i look like a boy with
my hair like that. and so what. this is america
and we kill anyone who we think would
look better inside-out. by america i mean
my partner [who is learning how to tend
a gunshot wound] and i both flinch at fire-
booms and the click of a chain-link
fence in the wind. we have never met
most of the people we each also love.
we both own steel-toed boots and know
how to tie a bandana as protection [or
tourniquet]. on the fourth of july we both
have pending criminal charges and this
is america, so i get cat-called
to my car, but again, this is where we are
supposed to be proud of from.
by from i mean tonight, and until
every dead kid’s name is the loudest
riot-siren of the century. so we can
still drink moonshine in the tall grass
and eat potato salad with our
hands and put everything [but
the camera-click] on pause.