Then November seemed like a whole other gender:the veins of wet leaves splayed upon the bedrock.Skin of the land beneath which you could hear yourown blood rushing boyhood out. Under orders nowto be a man, I lie down on a large nurse tree, a fallenlog feeding the rest of the forest with its body; long scardown birch bark. Please let this be enough. After a whileI get hungry, too, my tongue a useless fruit. But I will liehere until something sings be this. Birds, back me up—you who leave your first feathers in the brambles.For years, men had to hide their porn in the woods.Desire in exile, insects running in rows. We boysquickly gathering in the reedy ditch to see. Little hands—we were hardly what the ladybugs were looking for.But…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2020