I want my name to amount to more
than a bone passed between two dogs. I don’t
want catheters or shrink wrap or any more ceremonies
of fists. I want each rib in my body 
to hold the shadow 
of a lion. I don’t want strychnine. I don’t want
to be the peel on the orange. I want things 
to get a little sloppy. 
Let’s make Ouija into a drinking game, 
play strip Trust Fall. Let’s not be knockout 
pills. I’d like to pass a cherry seed 
back and forth with our tongues 
but I don’t want the anxiety attack after. I’ll keep 
the three orgasms
during. I’ll keep the night 
we were thunder gods, the night I learned
the moon has no light of its own,
I’ll keep unbuttoning my shirt
one button too many, I’ll keep the feeling
of being on two planets at once 
but mostly on the one where you are
melting butter in a pan, where popcorn
is popping and there is rose wine on the table, 
which is the same planet on which, in sixth grade, 
Marcus told me he prefers shoe shopping 
to football, and I told him, 
That’s exactly why everyone assumes you’re gay. 
I don’t want the electrons that left his face
and landed in my backpack. I don’t want meanness 
to bobsled my brain. When I open, I want to be 
the umbrella, not the pocketknife.