some sexual trauma of a catholic boy whose hands look like mallets


my bones are good bones

i use them exclusively to clang

against other bones. i am impacted

by sacred movements

the boys with their hips who sway

into me look so opaque when i

whisper them my secrets, their lips

against my shaking ribs oh god! i want

to give each one away, shatter the caged

system—may the music of my bones be

without harmony just the amelodic rain

of reverberating timbres.

every body looks like sugar

cookies sopping in a field of

dew. every body looks so crisp

in the shadow of the cross where

a nun with large thighs would smack

my hand with desk tools. i don’t kink shame.

crisscrossed my hail marys so i became

smoke drifting out of the center of a small

universe and when i came to, my child body

saw a specter behind the church. some white lady

who told me I was never to return to her garden


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