=This Boy's Life=

It was usually after a rainy day

that I’d steal off into the woods

behind the development.

Picture this: a boy, fifteen

or sixteen, wearing cut-offs, sneakers,

a light windbreaker, and

nothing underneath.

It was humid among the trees, the mud,

the rotting logs, a place

you could easily imagine

a body might be dumped

after someone fucked

and cut its throat.

I’d feel my hard-on grow

at the first whiff

of leaf mold.

The sneakers would come off first

and the black sludge

squished between my toes

as I looked for a place to die

discarded among the weeds.

It would never take long

to find the right spot.  Slipping out

of the windbreaker, I’d kneel

and unbutton my shorts.

Lying face down, I’d yank

the pants to my knees

as if rough hands had posed me

for public humiliation.

The gnats would kiss my face

flirt with my open

asshole, my eyes fixed on a monumental pebble

less than 3 centimeters

from my nose, my palms up,

“finished.”  I didn’t even need

to move, or touch myself, the scratch

of the dead grass enough. Only that—

and a nearby bee: it’s indifferent drone

excluding me.

They’d find me there like that in a day or two
so beautiful.