William Fargason’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New England Review, Grist, New Orleans Review, Bayou Magazine, Nashville Review, and elsewhere. He is currently a poetry MFA candidate at the University of Maryland, where he teaches creative writing. He lives with himself in Hyattsville, Maryland.
Tell me about your father, his drinking,
where he is now. Tell me why you don’t talk
to him. Tell me more. What I thought
I knew was wrong. My egg tooth breaks through
the outer membrane, lets me breathe. Finally.
The grace that comes with honesty—
I’ve been here before. I love you, too.
But do you? Be honest. This is the first time
you’ve stayed the night. Every piece
you share becomes, somehow, more important.
The first details always are: your hands,
your scent, the hair stuck against your neck—
new as light. My egg tooth pushing through,
blue shell cracking enough for me to feel
the smoothness of your legs against mine.
Your body unfolds like a ballerina. This new world,
our world. The sharpness of the tooth splintering
what kept us apart, what protected us.