Portrait of a Boy on the Other Side of a Glory Hole

Most wounds are circles, so it’s no surprise

you’ll find me here. Alone. On my knees, on evenings

when the moon hangs low. The brown boy

behind the hole—not quite the size

of a cave or a cigarette burn. Splitting open

my lips the way a saint parts his mouth to banish thirst

or famine or to greet his flock. I have stories

and sadness to share, known men

who moan like injured dogs, others like horses

off to the glue factory. Their dignified shape

reduced by the deep vermilion of my rim.

I used to be scared. Eyes locked to the heavens.

My trembling voice wrapped around their hard-ons.

They only feel me through the hollow space

they briefly occupy. I am all mouth. Cavities and throat.

Obedient. Never see, never touch.

Some call for Jesus as if that were my name.

I have lost so much around here.