Between two men
drinking from the same
dirty glass, a choice
that often goes
unexpressed—green
olives passed back
and forth in the mouths
of a father and son
in a corner booth
where cock and regrets
have never spoken
openly about what is
most desired, a moment
spreading its rash
longings deep enough
where no one can
touch, soothe, or work
out all the tension
balled-up into knots—
yoga and mindfulness
on a mat drenched
with sweat unable to
compensate for faces
ramming up against
pubic bone where one
can still inhale
rising bread. The world
was wrong. Love allows
our tongues to follow
thirst to whatever needs
to be reached—a cube
of ice on a hot stove
riding its own melting.
Timothy Liu
Also by Timothy Liu (see all)
- Against Myth - February 18, 2019
- Ars Poetica: At Fifty - October 10, 2018