October 22, 2021Crying Boys
What of a country where boys are taught to grow
into wheels to rattle over tracks
bruised by false machismo.
Lug weight of a family
on their metal hips. I crease from the waist
like a paper clip when he enters with heavy steps,
squeezes my face between his palms.
Boys should grow beards that prick like pins.
He orders me to repeat my name a hundred times,
insert fuck before it, moan loud to turn him on.
When I halt to breathe, his leather boots recoil
like a trigger, kick on the bulge between my thighs.
Pain shoots up my body how a hooting train startles
a snoozing station.
He thrusts his palm, snakes it
down into my throat, keeps it there till the clumps
of consonants drool from the corners of my lips.
The only law in my country to protect me
is to close my eyes and believe that destiny is a bullet
train.
And when no one is staring, fling flecks
of fear and fire and what happened to you
to the ground.
from #73 – Fall 2021