American Poem
There is nothing one man will not do to another. —Carolyn Forche
1
Like the punchline
to a Chinese fortune
cookie epigram,
I would add, In bed.
2
Certain welts incurred
will rise like beads
on an abacus,
intimate as a surface.
3
In sum, the body's boring.
Charity starts at home.
Souls weigh .08 grams —
not enough for possession
charges.
4
The body has a key.
Only dogs can hear it
unlocking. Southern
trees bear strange bed
-fellows. There's no
species strong enough
to free their own
skin's chains.
4 1/2
Fruit is the oldest symbol.
'Oldest' is 4000 years.
5
Hate the sin, not the sinner.
Hate the body, not the soul.
Save it by storming its entrances.
Everyone comes with glory holes —
at least two, women three. And
all home-made. And aren't we all.
6
This is hard to say. He would come over unannounced. Push open the door. Push me backwards into the bedroom. In a zip, my mouth would be force-fed, full. He rammed me to keep from screaming. Said Can't take it all can you fag sometimes when I come I touch the face of God. I have yet to see the shroud for a pounded face or ass.
7
Do what you want
to me, long as you
write Afghanistan
on my back. In spit.
8
This is the drill.
There is the oil.
Men, go in and do this.
9
Nothing a man won't do to another, especially in bed, or naked.
I've seen my skin interrogated, made to reveal its secrets,
its withheld mother tongue.
It said, Poetry's useless.
10
This is better than Christmas.
I'll tear into you like a present.
Your surfaces so beautiful.
I want what is inside.
Isn't this better than Christmas
every day? Lift up that ass.
Somewhere, say Kowloon
or Corpus, stores are opening.
