Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2022  Vol. 21  No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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The hair of the living no different
than the hair of the dead.


He writes poems in the sky with twigs
of burning rosemary. What I have

that he doesn’t: a face.
I forgive myself—

floating on the surface
of the water face up as my shadow
sinks to the bottom. Sweet boy

you will be good at nothing.


When he blows a kiss toward the camera, snowflakes
billow from his lips. Night cowboy.

Snow hour. To shake a garden snake
from a pile of dead leaves and branches,

to think I have finally found myself
beneath all this skin.


Should the wind be wild
paraphrase, rebuild.

The opposite of a clock hanging on the wall,
a crucifixion.


I found him naked, spread eagle on the bed.
But I was filming, so he was gentle.

In his hands, the camera lens was a puddle of rainwater
in the desert. This year, no snow.

This year, he pulls a bouquet
of lilies out of his car, throws them on the concrete.

They shatter like stained glass.


As he sleeps, I search his face
for resemblance,

but it is as I feared—ripples only,
the occasional wave.  

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