i give him my throat
of little importance
emptied it of meaning
the flesh of his fingers
is language like whispered words
of need and i am an arrangement of needs
in the hands of an answer
i give him my throat supine
and surrendered
to fill with feeling for which
there are no words
i am opened
like black fruit
surrounded by flies who covet sweet secrets
before an audience of men
with throats like mine
waiting to be opened as well
we will smell his flesh
be warmed by his body
place our faces in his palm
remember the fingers of our father
the insufficiency of mothers
and love songs
like he’s got the whole world in his hands
we will stretch ourselves like dead men
speak no words
hear no sound but the in and out of air
as he breathes into us early saturday survival
we will remember never hearing
the heaviness of manfeet in the dark
when nightmare moves the mind
we will remember empty chairs
and absent touch
and playing catch with god
we will wait our turn to die
wait the razor and possibilities of blood
where men cease to be
who lay down to die softly
and rise up to destroy
we give him our throats
to cut our groves of fear
to relieve us of the memories
we never made
with men who had no eyes
