Face
I feel his breath but don’t see his face,
feel, rather than see, the rips in his
jeans,
the bruise beneath his left, wilting eye,
and vodka with the lingering and opaque tint
of
Ibuprofen still drips between the thin
slits in his lips as they touch my own.
I smell the cigarette that he pulled from
the mouth of the crew-cut lesbian
a clit-licking butch
run down by an SUV outside,
feel the sharply ridged ladder,
cut crudely
from his wrist
to bicep.
he’s a faggot
He’s incredible.
He’s hopeful,
on his knees
to suck your cock
to pray
for sunlight and for a crosswalk,
for eyes to replace his ears.
I don’t see his face
because the strobe light carves through
the pitch blackness,
because my eyes can’t adjust,
because you can’t take your head
out of his crotch
because I could love him,
because he has no face,
because his face is my face and their
faces and the face of the boy
who loves a boy and of the lesbian
the dead cunt
and of the other women
in the grime-lathered underpass by the
street—
fucking
other women,
loving
other women—
and I have no face,
but the boy has a tongue.
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