I Am Trying to Forget His Chest but the Faucet Keeps Shining in the Sun Like Hair

by PATRICK DUNDON

 

His face is a question

I keep trying to answer

 


as I watch an insect

crawl across the desert

 


of porcelain called

the bathtub and think

 


how I haven’t looked

at the moon in weeks.

 


I admire how the air

manages to hold itself

 


upright without complaint

while I look right through it,

 


use it to stay alive. And O,

all these strange mens’

 


bodies—I cannot even

call them meat anymore.

 


I am the meat, the mass

of flesh shaped for sitting.

 


After weeks of writing

about my unavailable

 


father, my unavailable

mother, the unavailable

 


men who twisted from

my sheets like water

 


from a hand-wrung towel,

I sink under the wet earth

 


of his texts and remember

the weight of his hand 

 


on my thigh as we talked

of the apocalypse

 


and our helplessness

to stop it. Each thought

 


keeps spelling THE END

though the door

 


opens and the window

opens and the tireless

 


blue of the sky is a hinge.