Reginald HarrisWe cannot deny each other,
who we are: this face slowly
coming to the surface of my face,
a watermark, a mask, is his face,
this tangled web of “Good Hair,”
His, graying at the sides, just like
Him, just as I’d dreamed, touching
my temples when I was young. His
this growing paunch, this slowing
step, the surface calm, the silence,
the easily engorged, restless dick,
never satisfied, always searching for a home.
Mon semblance, Mon pere,
Mi espada, mirror, shadow
Cut us and we bleed music,
sea salt, sperm, and discontent,
twin wary avatars of loneliness,
silent and distrustful. Infidel
Me and Him, just as easy with a smile and
smooth seduction, just as quick
to close a door, shut down, turn off.
Him, it’s Him, this is Him, I think.
I know—This is me. Read more »