I won’t deny it any longer: the man I love
is a horse galloping through my chest.
Only in thunder may I whisper his name.
I tell his mother I am the sort of man
she will never have to think about.
Shame—face of mulch, mouth of black snow.
In another story, the body was a bloodless
moon and it was caught by trees.
Dying—moon inhabits like an animal.
Someday there will be a night in which a boy
survives falling like light across skin.
Memory—small pocketknife tossed into ravine.
I do not believe the world keeps us
rooted in its forest.
He moves through my body like a god.
By crux of dawn I retreat every mile it takes
to let him live inside of me.
Him—my bloodless moon, my swollen bed of stones.