At first I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him

or the rude A/C. Water pipes

conspiring? Coiled pipes

of my own body creaking pink?

There was much to hear from the couch,

& by twelve I had learned not to trust

my senses. When I drank water

I tasted salt. When lights turned on

or off I tasted salt. When people spoke to me

intensity of salt taste defined their words.

Besides, I thought,

anything could sound like a breath.

Maybe the wind quickened me.

Maybe a fan upstairs. Maybe

a handful of maple samaras corkscrewing

down outside made me hard.

Any answer for What spoke?

that meant escaping the red word said.

—alone :: alone :: (queer) :: alone :: alone—

Again, in the dark, where I knew my bones

I heard the faintest rustling

like he’d turned over in his sheets

& a brine of bitter ocean flowers filled my throat.

I opaled in the sterile moonlight.

                                                                    After,

 I looked out the window: A jury

of nightjars in his mother’s white rosebush

six of them, silver-brown, preening

themselves among the glowing blossoms.

I knew what I’d heard.

I still hear it sometimes

late Spring, before dawn

—the faintest rustling

of wings.