The two men snarl across the sheets, a Babel tangle.
He runs his tongue along the weird word of his body.
He wraps his skin in moans behind a stack of towels,
forgets his name, digs down to where delight is buried.
Later, he’ll bring the borax, brillo, bleach. He’ll scrub
the sense back into language. Him and her. And it—
inanimate. No sweat, no stains. He’ll stick the bubbles
back in his mouth. The monogram will speak the truth.
What of his lover? Steamed away. And who can prove
his limbs were more than rumors, his whispers more more than vapor?
A magic trick: you wrap him in a pillowcase
and tap your wand. Abracadabra rabbit rapture.
Midnight. He cleans his mouth with whisky. He can’t sleep.
He takes another shower. The house is full of soap.
R A Briggs
1 May 2014