the young boys in the corner are covering their bodies
like they’re ashamed of the skin, the gangly limbs.
but everyone knows the only good boy
is a dead one.
see how the moon burns through the fields like a white-hot fire,
and they’re sitting in the bathtub with slit wrists.
but we’re spitting out our teeth
and putting them back in our mouths,
where the desire hums sweet and low in our gums.
the analogy goes like this: we’re piecing ourselves
back together, one bone at a time.
but we love to rip those young boys apart-
get into the hot red heat of them, push them
into the wall and up against our bodies
until it’s worse than a suicide.
they’ll dream of car crashes and bullet holes
and plunging stocks; they’ll rub their hands
together and hide the pill bottles
in the back of the medicine cabinet.