Give him back already.
Sharing a small bed, he’s still too far from me
dallying in your ancient City of Dreams
where cats miyav and dogs hav hav in streets paved with lapis
and there’s no smog or penitentiaries
and queer men can marry.
Night was our ally:
safely walking arm in arm
after throwing ass in the discotheque.
You’re doing the most.
My arm’s numb.
Soon the muezzin will cry his second call.
Vans sweep the neighborhood
before the runoff election,
blaring conservative campaign slogans.
Give us some time before he has to work.
I want to lick his armpits all day long.
Or keep him
like this, a statue of Endymion
whose bearded profile I wish I had the skill to draw—
he talks too slick for his own good.
When we argue
(he loves to argue) I’m a child again withering before my father.