Dani Putney | Roberto
He’s ecstatic, as in too many
Frenches with Mandy, but I want in
like a gangplank to the New World.
Abuzz, he shows me the Fullmetal
Alchemist tattoo up his arm, a kindred
lost bo(i), muzzy eyes into a past
I’ve forgotten. He looks like my ex—
the house, the three dogs, the almost-
a-decade—but this makes me
(gulp) harder. He’s the firestorm
& I the beetle laying its eggs
under the smolder. To feel your way
into a trauma splattered inside
the present is to become a god.
We joke about Rio Linda, our shithole
suburban roots, & the glory of here,
South of Market, We made it,
we made it. I lie, as if I walk the same
streets, but this Lone Star night
is a blip in some cosmic punchline.
He stumbles into the thighs
of the bar’s tabletop go-go dancer,
tongue tracing pink jockstrap
toward the small of Mr. Disco’s back,
feast or famine, darlin’. Anything goes,
moonlight sole witness to our smoky
patio hungers. Ever the gentle(them),
I wait for him to finish, swig his cash-
only beer, & rest sticky shoulder blades
against the brick. You’re beautiful,
you know that? & I’ve got him.
If I’m to be someone’s seconds,
I kill swiftly. You too. He leans, I grab,
& lips speak a primordial language,
sweat from (two) men’s bodies oozing
along my throat. I want it all, baby—
he’ll be gone in minutes, I see
the more than in his glances
at Mr. Disco, the graveyard blooming
in his chest. I know the game.
So we kiss as stopgap to breathing.
So he moans. & I’m counting down
to total incineration. Stay here,
he finally interrupts. I nod & let go.
I play by the rules. We both have
what we came for.
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