Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019

Two Poems

Two Poems

Photograph via Flickr by Hrych

In Transit

I’m writing you from the back of the Greyhound.
We pass Yonkers, Woodlawn, Riverdale,
people doing nothing in the street,
a body asleep on the sidewalk, or passed
out, it doesn’t matter—what I mean to say is,
how are you?

It’s quiet here, in the back of the bus,
my face pressed up against the greasy glass,
the woman next to me is resting lightly
on my shoulder—but outside the city screams:

And I think of us, reeling down St. Mark’s Place,
freshly tattooed and sweaty,
bleeding black ink through my jeans,
you, a heart burning a hole in my chest.

And somewhere someone’s writing
dyke across a telephone booth,
a brick wall, the hood of a car—
but we’re here, kissing in the greasy
streets of Manhattan, flipping off cars
and old men who flick their tongues
in our direction, hoping for a taste.

In response to your question:
I don’t love you, at least not in a way
you understand (What is there
if not honesty, a good ear, a place
to call home?) Here, in a cab
cutting across 5th avenue,
on the 6 train to Grand Central,
and every time it ends.
                                           This view is
anything but regular—
cool and flat: my hand
on your chest.

A Saturday Night

            For Thom Gunn
Met him at The Boiler Room
In the Village, he was
Wearing Fred Perry, jeans tight,
Cool smile. He rolled his tongue around
The neck of a beer and I fell
In love. Maybe
He’s a skinhead, or

Maybe I just don’t care,
As long as he puts his
Mouth on me. What I’m searching
For is contact: full-bodied lust,
The walk without the shame. My whole
Entire face
Is pressed up against

The bathroom stall. His breath
Is hot in my ear; teeth
Tracing my jaw line. Pushed
Into my hand, soft flesh turning hard:
Before long: his mouth an O shape
Around my cock,
My mouth sucked-in, feet

Jammed forward against tile.
I remember I want
To be him, to be him in-
Side me: have I been here before?
I was hot for experience,
Hot for impulse.
My body I could

Own, his body I could
Occupy. His torso
Lean like my father’s. Something
I recognize, like a fist inside
My flesh, knuckled, kneading, scraping:
Where do we come
Apart in sex?