Poor You, It Isn't Going to Be Easy to Slake Me
By Tommye BlountRetouched, a double-tapped vision:
this white man's countenance;
then, underneath it, another: monument
of whiteness—one makes room
for another; one jawline rightward
shifts; the gaze of the other eyes
me, as if it wants to put to rest
not a lesson in pillage. An admission
—don't make me
say it—to say there are waves of bodies
shifting, a bed rocked by the "primitive,"
loopholes in their biology, no holes
in the white sails, more holes in the sheets,
the held ghosts of so many
forced entries and exits negotiating
each other; a future made of nothing
but churned whiteness. Is it not a chain;
this historical feed of I want
what I want? And do I not want to be
more than witness, to be closer
to this white chin, under its cover,
a white with which to lie. Can you hear me,
blond head? Lie against me in the bed
you didn't make. Like your great great grandfather,
touch my unmastered face—
I promise to know nothing—check my teeth,
my nose—don't I too have your nose?
Oh, baby, you've got my nose
opened in your eyes' deep blue
of good boy, good boy. It's too late to leave,
come back to this bed; get back under
the soiled sheet. After all this time,
am I not still thirsty for your hooded cock?
Tommye Blount is the author of What Are We Not For (Bull City Press) and Fantasia for the Man in Blue (Four Way Books), a 2020 finalist for the National Book Award, a 2021 finalist for the Lambda Literary Award in Gay Poetry, a 2021 finalist for Publishing Triangle's Thom Gunn Award, and others.
