In the Cadillac of my imagination
unraveling in Corso’s kitchen
we eat verses of Homer for lunch.
He becomes my Odysseus.
My fingers are burnt and veins tapped.
Our highs grow weary
as we strum down fateful guitars.
Black curls on blond curls
while I imagine Degas would paint us both ballerinas.
His strong calves curl raw around my dirty sheets,
as I mount his black tar heart.
When he weeps, I’ll weep.
In a garden I’ve grown,
he comes to me.
He lays down and
burrows into my strange earth.
His roots go so deep,
almost to the other side of Lesbos
and wrap carefully around my throat.
The branch of our unholy joining
rains down the wrong unto
rows of vegetation,
rows of desperation,
rows of “come with me child
I’ll find you a home among these constellations.”