I used to have this dream
when I lived at home
that you had this amazing penis
the size of a body pillow
and in Winter
we would sleep with the
bedroom windows out of their frames
because your morning wood
was like a giant lava lamp
I could hug with my whole body
while I kissed your lips and
fill my cat's cradled ice lined
insides with and melt the shadows of Summer
away like the frost fleeing
from my eye lashes
before your breath
every time you would kiss
my closed eyes while I sat on
the Waldren St platform waiting for
the 7 A.M. downtown.
My father asked me if I slept with
my old aluminum bat,
dented with the rocks I used to hit,
grip worn from carrying it
when I used to walk my dog nights,
because I was afraid of him,
but really I was
afraid of being
unable to love
openly so I
answered him "no,
but I am afraid of
rooftop ninjas,"
and was
able to
breath again
once he left my bedroom,
the black beads of his eyes
cut to twin wells of disbelief
behind searching black slats.
It has been a magnificent thing
being out here
permanently gone from home and
the pain there,
but I do miss that dream and,
all too often, you.
