Poetry

Christmas, flew home packaged like a gift. Beneath my jeans a childlike padding. Came to adore the wee god, his dolorous mother.

it’s procedure to inspect 
the ass of an immigrant kid

undress put this gown on
the doctor will be here soon

Hidden in a dim stall as the muezzin called
all worshipers to prayer, I touched privately
the indelible stain.

She says she lit a candle and placed it under my balls when I was born
because they were too big,

If you had asked me, thirteen, what I wanted
to be one day, I wouldn’t have said it.

The anemone of your dream blooms
inside the vacuum of space.
In your pocket of black wind

He says he’s never really stopped
speaking to God. Says it’s in his DNA, asking
for things.

When my body blew open
the shadow-glass cloud
galloped through me, glittered

I count gulls until they spasm
into numbers, until I grasp
a number never uttered.

At night in the field, I felt the curvature of a palpable
time around me, felt the dark
foam of the waveform rise and collapse