Swan Island

Here is a melodramatic poem about a guy. Because sometimes, making good art is too high a standard to hold. And because, sometimes, the cheesiest, most cliché, stories are also the most true.

Swan Island
I saw you in your car once.
Getting on the interstate to Swan Island.
It was after we had stop talking.
Although things had been casual enough
That you could get away with it.
Not calling me
as normal,
as common,
as changing lanes.
I’d been thinking about you,
-of course-
Found a reason or two to be in your neighborhood.
Outside bar looking
and hopeful
over some guys shoulder.
Willing your silhouette into the empty street.
Oh hey,
I’d say,
like what all those movies,
and Sex in the City,
had told me
about being an adult were true
and this is how we talk to someone
who’s been inside us.
But underneath you’d feel
how I spent my days nodding and smiling through small talk.
Walked around town trying
not to swing my hips too much,
but still enough.
And how,
out of all of the men
I listened to,
nodding and smiling
giving them the sparkles in my eyes
out of ease and habit,
you were the only one
I like to think of
as having a cock.
A fleshy limb hanging between your legs.
That could get hard.
That I could make hard.
That I could take into my mouth.
Feel its pulse.
Taste its throbbing.
You’d see me and know
How the only place I wanted to be
Was with my face buried between your legs.
How I played the memory endlessly,
Of your thighs gripping my ears,
-shaking intimately-
As you grabbed my hair,
Pushing yourself into my mouth,
My body rippling satisfaction,
in that place
of overlapping
and degradation.
that final
arc of your completion,
that vulnerable surrender,
When your salt poured into my sea.
And I drank and drank,
gulping for more
long after it was done,
because you
giving yourself to me
was like food.
I said nothing to you then,
of course,
because we were adults,
but I let myself caress my cheek
and graze my lips,
plumped with sensitive sensuality,
against the soft hairs of your inner thigh.
Licked the sweat from around your scrotum like a cat.
Nosed deep into the folds of your skin,
savoring the smell,
the feast,
that would give me the perseverance
to make it through another week
of nodding and smiling,
castrating other men.
Stocking you with my absence.
Hunting you with my standing offer of pleasure.
That empty space hovering above the street,
the only thing on my mind.
So when you finally did appear,
at the intersection headed towards Swan Island,
a hazy profile in your grandpa’s Buick,
made pale and squishy
by too much Portland winter,
I sat and watched,
silent as any adult,
while you turned
turned back
a little too quickly
to stare ambiguously
at the road ahead.

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