I came to next to the guesthouse,
Alex handing me a copy
of Modern Man as we locked
on the first nude we’d ever
seen. The pages stuttered:
identical bodies distinguished
by setting, pose, the fingers
of boys whorled in Circe’s
sacred heart, vasculature—
Alex and I transfixed,
sitting stock-still as she bled out.
Without clothes we were different.
Offset at the waist, Circe’s skin
fixed in laminate, cuffed, cold,
more animal than our classmates
standing ten-fingered and ten-
toed like unwanted dogs. They
crouched, cannibals masking
the stoop with pictures of women
who resembled Saints
we were told could save us
as we turned towards new idols.
Their hair crowning like waterfalls.
I asked: let the sun burn my eyes,
let it burn my back. If change
were to come, it would come
unnoticed, reddening my sight
as smoke filled the ...