Poem in Which My Faggotry Fakes its Own Death

On the eighth day, coquelicot,
wearing my Armageddon earring,

my faggotry jumped to its death
from the foam spire of its death.

& on the ninth: in paradise, titmice
scrubbed its pearls with aftermath flax.

From its suicide note: So men might
once again flip you buffalo nickels.

The being inside my having been so
delicately razed itself into wondrous pink.

Meaning my faggotry carried all of astrology
& I wanted only the varmint baubles,

little sex cowlick with which I coaxed
maw into morrow, morrow into morning.

How many times could I wake like that:
gowns & waxwings, the paler gust before

the gust that everyone remembers with a notch
in the wall when a prodigal boy molts past his pastness?

How many times could I join the hundred
apocryphal boys nursing their empire stitch?

Their faggotries, too, nixed themselves
with lovability’s long & bedazzled shears:

drowned in a tub filled with pink milk,
Alice’d by an extra-large bottle of Rush.

To build trust, we plunged the javelin of fey
suspicion, deep & darkling, inch by inch,

deeper into each other. I think we sought
a new unto, as in the boys we barely let

ourselves struggle to be, as in two yuan
pieces, silver & tinkling, nearly crushing
each other into the bottom of a celadon
demitasse given as a gift by a lover who,

nightly, conspired to push our faggotry
from the glottal stopgap of the word

he never said but always meant: not fickle, no,
not fanged—but blood, yes, & its heavy shimmer.