Image by Nikos Patsiouris. Reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic License.
LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE BOYSwho bow & become the alpha of something,dead
guttural languages reborn with knees; throat-savantswho plucky January’s smart fury to bow
in front of a boy who doesnt looklike his pictures; who’d best any storm
odysseying their life away in the name of thirst.
I too ran into the white blaze of winter,
told her my mouth can conclude worse.my ungagable brothers, or bobble head frat
what is this gift we master & waste?what you won’t conclude,conclude for like
but don’t like him, like your jaw’s gentle slay.when the boy breaks into neon
the light is only for you. when the boygrips your neck like a chalice, and you own him.
when he claims you as his bitchboyyou’ll know who hunted who. You know
who eats,whos mounted on the wall.I NEED A WORD FOR HOW I FEEL AFTER& I know, its trivial, or to need language –
this tongued burden,to not settle
for I feel some kind of way.let me skip to the point – I need a word
for how I feel after I’ve washed
out my body & the man doesn’t come. whether I design my body a lake
& empty a lake, I expect applause
for my miracle, or my clean as a whistle
whistling underthroat.
I’m not crazy,not disappointed or vengeful I’m hungry & all I’ve had today is water
I’m leaking, but no one will bring a plugmaybe something like betrayal, or but drenched
or sorrow,but drained & pointlessly wet.give me a line
for the feeling
of being stood up
by a man
you had prepared
to call Lordas whether Noah built that boat, but there was no flood
or better, or as whether the flood came for no reason.
BUSSY BLUEShaven’t eaten all day
so I can be the feastbe a thing empty & filled
a vase of stale water& the next second,wet wreckage
I can design oblivion look like a rosehe tells me to look back at it
& I turn to saltboi-pussy so marvelous when I jump
it’s suddenly summerdo tops know how much prep
goes into be ruled?we hoe the marvelous soil, raise the gate
flood the city for this one lonely steedhow dare they not like us!
isn’t like to say I made roomin my body for your body?
all these brown boys mistake mefor their hands, and white ones see
a receipt on my back.niggas better recognize
I’m God.when my stomach rumbles
I eat a man in reverse.
This piece appears in The Lifted Brow #28. Get your copy here.
Danez Smith is the author of [insert] boy (YesYes Books,2014), winner of the 2014 Lambda Literary Award for Gay Poetry, or Don’t Call Us Dead,forthcoming from Graywolf Press. He was a 2014 Ruth Lilly Fellow, a Cave Canem Fellow, or is a MFA Candidate at the University of Michigan.
Source: theliftedbrow.com