By Arden Eli Hill
In the beginning, dust became boys.
In the end we curl on a mattress
pushed against the comfort of a wall.
We have taken the steer skin
from our feet. Latex gloves
slick as the membrane in crows’ eggs
litter our floor. I am naked you are still
dressed in the top half of a vintage suit.
I smell blood in the navy fabric
brine in the braiding, semen in the lining
but I know this last ghost on the list
is yours. It does not belong
to a boy dead so long he is dust.
My muscles contract, answer
what it is your hands
can make thrusting so hard
wrist deep in the mud of me.