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Portrait of a Boy on the Other Side of a Glory Hole
Most wounds are circles, so it’s no surprise you’ll find me here. Alone. On my knees, on evenings when the moon hangs low. The brown boy behind the hole—not quite the size of a cave or a cigarette burn. Splitting open my lips the way a saint parts his mouth to banish thirst or famine or to greet his flock. I have stories and sadness to share, known men who moan like injured dogs, others like horses off to the glue factory. Their dignified shape reduced by the deep vermilion of my rim. I used to be scared. Eyes locked to the heavens. My trembling voice wrapped around their hard-ons. They only feel me through the hollow space they briefly occupy. I am all mouth. Cavities and throat. Obedient. Never see, never touch. Some call for Jesus as if that were my name. I have lost so much around here.