After, he says
filling a glass of water from
a crystal carafe.
I'll take you there
after.
Always there, never
to his grave
by the cemetery
to mourn
to cry.
Just there. That
is where we'll go
after we make love
but it feels like fucking, though,
no love. It is raspy and
hard and full of
scratched, inflamed flesh.
The sunlight entering the high
windows bakes the room
the sheets filmy like flypaper
heartbeats in our throats
from the start, dehydrated
skin chafing, hair unkempt.
After, we need cold
cream, cherry cigarillos,
a trip to the wastebasket
and a shower,
cinching on ties even though
there is no service.
Will be no flowers or
hymns or chairs.
Just the ground soaked
by an April rain, the
grass dewey, our loafers
shiny and slick:
two of us there
but only me imagining
my father's derision
his dessicated snarl
the word faggots
hanging like a used
towel.
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