Joey De Jesus
I’m his utopia, his burrowed, his bulk,
a sleeping inlet of encounter and spine weight,
known by hunger, the tongue’s critique sours
a compendium of mouths opening.
If shore is a matter of need, then permit
my glad-handing this auric cassava and cane.
If heart is an army, then I am an island
filched, the palm burning after thunderclap.
Straw mattress has been hard on his back;
my lover, he wants to learn from me Spanish:
I say, prende la luz as in, turn on the light
from the Latin prehendere: to seize, to take.