Dear Mother of Weakness,.
A boy who never begs, a boy like a siren, a boy like a tree, a boy
mud-hungry and riverwashed, a boy unafraid, a boy whose hum is the
sound of retreat, a boy who calls the bones in the earth to rise, a
boy who licks salt from rocks he places on his bright tongue like
the names of saints in litany, Selah, a boy whose mouth is a blur
and a sneer and a honeycomb of psalms, a boy who is always the dark
against the dark in the distance, a boy whose stationary body blocks
the spilled yellow light of all windows, a boy with fingers
juice-stained and nails dark with dirt, a boy who forges charms to
send rain, a boy who plucks cicadas from the air and sings them from
their shells--let him not come for me.
Let him not arrive in the night.
Let him not haunt me, this brown-eyed boy.