an explanation for my father (who never asked)
by Calvin Claudio
In short, I want to moan harder than you ever, ever will.
I want to moan so loud that the earth arches its back
and quakes with pornstar begs of mercy.
The long version. I pay forty dollars for a tattooed man
to flick my tit and stick a needle in deep,
a hot blue bullet catching fire to my bile.
The long version. I want to know if you’ve ever seen
a man and bawled over the landscape of his lips.
I want to know if you’ve ever tasted another man’s tears.
In short, I write to you in threes.
The father, the son,
and the ghost between them.
The long version. I want you to know that when I seem to
blind you, like Saul was blinded, it gives me a god complex,
and I must sacrifice myself on behalf of your ignorance.
The long version. The tattooed man tells me some do it for
the pain, cleansing chaos to gleaming silver. I want you to know,
I am not in pain. I am good. I am holy.
In short: When I spread myself on crisp white sheets
and tell a man to worship my nipples,
all night long I see white lights.
You can find Calvin at @calvin_claudio