In Body Sweet

It happened that last June,

jogging down a street

in Indianapolis, my shirt

tight against my chest,

breath not turning over

quick enough for my lungs,

I passed a table set just

outside a bar, full of men

in their fifties. One of them,

blue trucker hat on, shirt

black with orange flames

rising from the waist,

gave his friends the nod

watch this and asked me

I don’t really remember

what, I invent it anew,

about my breasts, and

the feeling like a key turning

in the ignition, the shame

of a joke at my expense,

at this body turned joke,

made me for that moment

murderous and the hole

in the floor of my mind

widened until I could look in

and see the pint

of beer smashed against

this old man’s mouth,

see how you giggle with two

less teeth, I’ll kill you,

you who sit beside friends

who didn’t quite laugh

when you said it, just smiled.

One I think nudged

stop the way we ask our boys

to quit, prey already dead,

outside of a sports bar

going out of business,

on the sidewalk tracing

Virginia Ave. in Fountain Sq.,

our gazes meeting for

the briefest as I jogged

past your group, having

not raised my voice

much less my fist, cowardice

or mercy, I turned the options

over as I carried home

these breasts which sprouted

as a boy. I remember,

so young, like eight,

goddamn, standing

in front of a mirror

alone in the bathroom,

while my folks watched

television, maybe

Sábado Gigante, as I clasped

my left breast

in my hands and pulled

so hard I yelped, pulled

as if I could tear it off,

and another night

I even brought scissors

with me though I couldn’t

bring myself

to pinch the blades

with my fingers.

I worried for so long,

so early, no kidding,

about being mistaken

for a woman, enough

I would lean over tables

in school as if reeling

from a stomach cramp

to hide myself

from the stomach

to the groin. Too, I was one

of those keeping

an oversized tee on while

swimming if at a public pool

and even once at Lake Wedington

during a summer barbeque

in which my father tended

thin strips of steak

on a communal grill,

the coals coaxed into fire

under the foil fastened

to those metal bars,

having a sip from his beer

before giving the meat

a sip, too, and to pass

the time before eating,

my brother and I started

for the water before

my mother noticed my

turning without peeling

and dismissed my vanity

with a swish of the wrist,

to throw her the shirt,

no sense for both flesh

and cloth to soak. I walked,

I think this is right,

to shore

with my arms

swaddled around

my chest until I reached

the shelter of the water,

submerging myself

with the solemn stage

presence of a pastor

dipping the reformed

supremacist into the river.

Which is what I was

really thinking on that run

home in June—it was as if

I’d been dunked into another

body, floating almost,

my knees keeping me

from falling down

the way a shark’s fin

bobs in and out of water.

It was I, the reformed shark,

who came home that afternoon,

trudging into the shower,

reeking of a city in heat

and aborted exercise. Like this

I greeted my sweetheart

who was decorating her toenails

a lacquered color so sweet

she had to paint my thumbnail

too, not touching my hand

but holding the brush steadily,

modeling stillness for me

in a way I know has many

antecedents and probably

is the opposite of radical love

though it moved me enough

to catch myself admiring

my painted thumb while

I lotioned my legs for once.