please don't die

madeira

in the morning the new kid wakes up
under the palm trees and hears
coyote echoes from the golden
dry ridges beyond. his neighbor's pool
looks too blue in the california sun.
at school he sits on a bench, long before
anyone else is there, lets his mind
wander as he traces the elegant european arches of the library. reminds him of
someone. a curved spine. marble hips.

on the pitch after school, there's his boy.
molten bronze under a paltry wind, curls
oil slick on the back of that swan neck.
he watches that constellation from
the sidelines, a pale and innocent
bystander, silent witness to a face
so beautiful it must be a crime. their eyes
meet and he can't help but shiver
just a little. after practice it rains, sudden,
a bay area shower that comes and goes
in two quick exhales.

i really like you, new kid says, weeks
later, after his boy has seen him
at his games and dragged a finger
on his lips. only when the room
was empty. i really like you, this way,
under the covers with your soft hand
covering my mouth, quietlike until
your mom goes back to sleep. in that
blue light from the gas station, licking powdered sugar off your thumb and
counting my freckles in the midnight glow.
into the space under my jaw, after
making sure no one is around
to see these spoils.

home is across an ocean, too distant
to be fathomed. his boy's friends are
mean things with scars behind their
ears and in their eyes too. they snap
like starved wolves and laugh at the way
these difficult words stick under his
tongue and come out with holes
through them. he doesn't mind it
much, when he imagines his boy
in his hometown, on the island
cliffs, just the two of them where
no one will laugh for the way they
look at each other in the silences.