February 2022

by Ian Powell Palm

The shattered mirror of my jaw, hung like a welcome mat

For invading ships, the first thing Richard noticed

Before asking me on Grindr to soil a pair of boxers

For 200 dollars, the Montana in me

Masculine enough to banish the landscape he craved,

 his queerdom absolved in the private exorcisms

Of hotel rooms bought with company credit, his nephew

In the next room as he asked me to send to send him a condom

Filled with cum, and I did, it was really that simple,

I wanted the money and I too wanted to live

Forever, to split open the oak of Richard’s gut

With seed, because I couldn’t imagine a better portrait

Than my body nailed to a man’s mantle, testament that even

The beasts who couldn’t bear to stroke themselves

Somehow still craved my touch