Features | winter & to my husband

Literary Supplement

winter

I have yet to use
the oblong soap bar
shagged with hairs

of the people living here
and of me
to wash my legs.

I laze around and leave
bending in the shower
to summer and to smaller

clothes But tonight I walk
from my bed wearing
on my chest only

hair. Over my leather backed
desk chair I sling
the pants I have worn

so long now. I am
a naked boy,
butt and ankles

for the people living here
and for me.

In the washroom

and bath
I see the moon
ink silver

on the muted water
soaking full my calves
and their groaning under

the oblong soap bar
shagged with hairs
of us.

to my husband

Oh baby, why’d
we have to take
that vacation
in the city?

Fresh out before
big toothed Montreal
you looked little
and gone guarding

our packs
full
of apples
and cheese.

You were some
scared blue eyes
off a steamer
flagged to port

and brackish tides
so I tapped
your chest
the way I do.

Even when you made
me that night
your eyes were gone
and your voice little.


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