Young Sick Bacchus

This light yellows

like a bruise

when the end’s

near. Stay here



with me, stung

smell of lye,

latherless my arms

wasting hot,



sandalwood fixed

to lathe and whirring.

Rowel me on—come, look

what I’ve done for you,



I’ve counted

these twenty-some grapes

clinging to sallow stem

thin as a wick—



dressed in my finest

white linen, helix

of ivy tricked

into my hair,



ibex beauty,

suspense of black

grapes hanging off

this wooden table



like an upturned hand—

pour another, it’s stronger

than it looks, and table’s ajar,

nothing will stay put 



today, peaches careening away

and outside a radio tuning,

crackling of flies outside

the window of this rented room,



even my tunic’s

slipping loose, don’t

look—do you know

about the great man’s ruby—



heavy gleam like

sewer water sputtering

through Rome’s stone gutters

pinned to his finger,



and if you kiss it

you catch it, slippery

as scum. These grapes

are a long thread



of black rubies,

only indulgence

I could spare

today,



don’t take them all.

But just one more?

As boys we dangled

the bunches down



into each other’s mouths—

open up—

sudden breaking

on tongues muffled



grapeskin sticking

at the back of the throat

like a word unvoiced—

as late one afternoon



he and I scampered off

to the olive grove,

fruitless, grey, something like

abstract statuaries,



sun high overhead

but shadows lengthening

toward us as we entered

the stucco-walled field,



dusty scent of quartz

on the air, and what started

falling was snow,

white as a placebo—



how much control

do you think I have—

and his hand inside

my tunic a warm body,



and all that time aware

of where the yew grows,

sticks if you stumble,

let’s not go there—



and the bushes

of prickly rosemary

are beautiful because

they move like the soul,



piling sharp on sharp

in weak banks

too tight to wave in wind,

and even I will agree,



when it snaps

the smell stays

in the mind a long time

like a fugue recorded,



sound of the piano

bench creaking

under the man

with the fingers.



I’m getting so thin,

that bench wouldn’t know

I’m there, or that piano,

or this table—



a bench for you

if you’d care to stay,

toy my ring of ruby

with your lips,



graceful just once more.

I hope it’s not—

oh, boys. The wine’s

a bit young



but it will do the trick,

and do you like

what you can see,

all these goodies,



they’re only here

because you are here—

open up, open up.