Unfinished #4

When we’re not finger-fucking in the rectory, we write poetry to each other, which is its own form of love. Like we crumble up the slips of paper and eat them.

Years later, I get a letter from the boy (now the man) saying that he’s done some pretty miraculous things: stuck his head in a lion’s mouth, lost some fingers in an industrial grinder, stuck his foot in the wrong shoe, walked into the wrong apartment one evening and fell in love with its occupant, tried to occupy a space in a place that wasn’t his life, always invading, seeing how far he could go. How deep. Point of the story? He’s lived a very happy life, but now he’s found a coffin just his size. He wants to see what it’ll be like to dig himself into the ground, close the door, and invade the darkness. Fond memories, Michael.

But many years before in God’s house, the priest wakes up, and walks through the velvet curtains, searching for his pupils.

The priest discovers how I love: pushing the boy off me with my feet, covering the blooming patch of hair between my legs (how soft), knowing God for the first time. Understanding his limits. A few days later, the boy says it best during confession: God let’s you seal the deal or he doesn’t.

From “The Virgin”


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