Love Song Containing a
Diminutive European Deer
Why not
recall the hot
rain of this morning’s shower,
or remaining nude in our bedroom, hours
into a summer’s day, staring
at our books—the cat doesn’t care
if we are naked on top of the sheets, the cat
doesn’t care if we make love, unbuttoned,
delighted, oppressed, or sleepy enough
to not yet feel any emotion at all,
just the animal
pleasure in being mostly
animal—I would be
an animal, a hare, say,
or diminutive European deer,
because of how much
I want to hear
the sound I make
with your mouth
at my throat
Robert McDonald
Dream Boy
In the yards where we outgrew our childhood together
And fought each other every summer,
I can see him laughing at me with a bloody nose.
He was so skinny he could barely hit me
As I threatened to knock him out by the fence
And bury him, since he always ditched me
To hang with girls that got too clingy,
Or spend all the money he owed me on uppers.
Two summers we worked at a private stable together
Where he kept forgetting to lock the gate—
Once a horse bolted and nearly killed me.
Later, the owner cursed him out and fired him,
Leaving me to shovel stalls alone.
We had our underage fun—
Got sloshed in basements, garages, on rooftops.
We drove his parents’ truck without permission,
And shoplifted, if we felt like it, never getting caught.
On a dare, once, he kissed me, and pretended to hate it.
One morning, I woke from a dream:
I’d gotten so mad at him
That I killed him. I’d always told him I would
Whenever he did anything outrageous.
And later that day, his parents called
To say he’d disappeared.
They couldn’t find him, and begged me
To tell them where he was.
I didn’t say it, but I surmised some creep,
Some junkie had seduced him, or stolen him,
Since he had such a pretty neck. Or maybe he ran off,
Found a job that would eventually let him go,
And then he’d have to come back—he always came back.
A slow week passed before they found him
In his car, cold after trying a drug
That would keep you high for days—
He’d been dead less than one.
I imagined for a while, after hearing about it,
That it wasn’t really him they’d found, but someone
else instead,
And that I could dream him back into his parents’ garage,
Or the stable where we worked,
Wearing a T-shirt that hadn’t been washed,
Waiting for me to wake up,
So we could let the horses out again.
Nick Galinaitis
Prayer
A prayer is like a poem
though harder to perform
A poem is for humans
God knows we’re dumb
A prayer is for our father
our dom alpha dad
I never edit as much
as when I talk to him
as if it’s the almighty
revising for me as I go
sussing out what I mean
what breeders don’t know
Poems and prayers alike
are more for me alone
Joe Bishop
