So now winter is a place you visit,
but don’t belong to. You pass the time
in a room that isn’t childhood, but
does that matter? Your mother
is still down the hall, and you are still
watching men on screen break
into other men, and the once snow-field
of your body becomes a flood that ruins
you each night.
You thought you were finished
with desire. And what a relief. To not want
to reach outside your skin. To touch
what isn’t yours, or anything at all.
To not be a tongue in a glass jar
in an ocean. But the pills make you
dream in oceans.
You wake up crusted with someone
else’s salt. You become a boy
who touches the backs of stranger’s
necks in public, in love with the soft
of his own throat.
This makes every man on the train
into something that could kill you.
Don’t worry, that’s a good thing.
It means you got on the train.
It means you still have a body.