Dear Boy In the Mirror Who Will Die on the Barricade

In this light, your hair is more blond than pink.
A starched collar, a fierce and joyous smile,
you are committed to Patria and nothing else.

Nothing has made me understand love
and confused my sense of self
more than slipping into your fictional skin

I would lower my register
I am down the octave

I would lie with your flat bare chest
against the curve of his shoulder,
kiss the knob of his spine
in philia.

Let his wine-dark breath brush the back of your ears,
his burning hands to our future plans, saying,
“Let me sleep here until I die.”
“You are incapable-”
“You'll see.”

We are Romantics at heart.

You see, I know love.
It exists above the waist,
at the knot in your schoolboy's tie:
in the space between your first and middle fingers
where lips brush a knuckle and no further.

Two years and 45 days.

I am not sad today.

I am sad most days when I think of you.
The wound has lessened,
some days it is only the stretch of a stiff muscle
other days the frenetic darkness of a childhood's midnight closet
But not today.

Today is nearly spring and a crocus peeks out beneath
half-melted snow on my neighbors lawn
and the tentative leaf buds of the oak tree wave in the wind.

This day when I feel you most near,
lemon squares covered in sugar and tall stems of white wine.
A birthday party tonight.

The world is filled with you today
like a secret season,
gulls on my rooftop
begging for cake.