25
black tulip and baby's breath
The boy is April, gods
know. Captive
ink beneath the skin
of biceps and shoulder blades, ink
distilled from coal dust, from glossy
petals of the black tulip powdered
fine, the stars’ satin backdrop. Fur
framing his white teeth is black, black
the leather straps about his wrists
and ankles, gag-knotted inside
his ivory grin. Black the hairy sun-
bursts circling areolas, bushing about
the loins, around the hot gates,
along the narrow entrance
to Elysium. His lips
brush my knees like blossoms, white
foam of baby’s breath
and surrender, white bucking
across my lap, a tremble and a sob
threaded with fine black
hairs, a cloud of belt-stung
bruises and the sheen
of broken mica. His breast-
bone’s the Plain of Mars,
between twin hills crowned
with scarlet signal fires.
The metal I ratchet about
his wrists is night edged
tight with rust. Spirea petals,
wind-torn, snag like drool
in his belly hair’s black,
a dusting of flour, wheat
seeds planted pecker-deep.
His neck bows over tongue-
wet boots, tulip too heavy
for its stem.