Boy Saint peter laberge
In the beginning , we were one blood . Then the body , stem of thorns , grew its disagreement from the inside out . Like all biblical stories , it begins with a simple thorn , a natural secret the body kept from itself . I open the sealed envelope : everything in the sky folded , gathered into one body . Shoulders , the tightness of my mouth . Wounded bird . Lightning fluttering between two boys who want to be in a basement in a town they dreamt up . Lightning in cities and towns I ’ ve never been to , never heard of . I am positive . I am not . I make a moon with sugar and a damp thumb . A couple of towns over I am born and reborn . I am not . Not positive until I say it . Until I taste it . Boys died and die in bodies like this and don ’ t ghost , except on voice messages their mothers play to keep alive . They dress to grieve in churches . Inside black moons . Blotted-out days . Separate from face , posthumous thorn . Body liquefaction . I dream about altar boys in ironed seersucker suits pecking each other like swallows when dared . Boys
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