I was born in a place for old men,
for boys feasting their way backwards into time.
The priest swiftly makes an incision
from where he stoops to weave a certain birthmark;
in secular seaculorum…
I know boys trapped to birthmarks like seagulls to brown water
I know boys turned silenced men, still sutured to the mark of the beast
I know this, because here, you know forced silence is how best to live after birth:
accept the wrong love in its untouchable
learn to pick out its echo when it calls
the love you seek does not belong in this place,
it’s been broken and wears the segmented skin of centipedes.

My skin, like each trickle of salt water makes for a sea of wonderments –
lost love, broken hands, burning flesh.
My body is a riverbank, flooded with wonderments.

We face the milky way – newborns, at daybreak – to recite
reminders to the shadows that make love to us:
there are beasts in us too, as in every man.