The boy across the field behind my house
had more in common with me than
ancestors;
most other kids I played with
were related to me
but he was always my favorite
because of the way he looked at me…
Later in life he was damaged in a tragic accident
and our future conversations ceased to be.
In an unseen instant he was ripped away
although he was still alive,
and that’s more than can be said for others
lost in that era of AIDS and ignorance.
I shake the love letter postcards out of my skull
and pick one at random:
I remember his breath on my neck;
the feel of our young bodies pressed together
like the pages of a trashy tattered copy
of a seldom read incest fantasy,
which I will forever remember as the first time that I made love;
the first time that someone I loved made love to me.
His reaching, reciprocated touch was tender,
terrified and then joyous.
His movement: considerate, then brutal within the landscape
of a language that we both finally understood.
In our joining, our words from a hundred lying conversations
gained new meaning and were finally made honest.
His kiss informed me that I was never truly alone.
His cock translated every secret code
I had ever witnessed
in the eyes of countless lonely strangers.
His thrusting within me
within the home of his grandparents…
that place between sheets
and layers of blood magic was always
and will forever be sacred.
My love letter postcard memories
are holy relics
now tumbling out of my decades old skull.
Rectangular snapshots of a time before
we were allowed to be who we truly were…
In a time before he lost who he truly,
secretly had been…
A time when we had dreamed
of a very different future
that had been reflected in
our tangle of shared flesh and blood.
Written by Jason Wright
April 5, 2018
