Anthony DiPietro

MAKE LOVE TO ME AND ONLY ME IN THE DARK
                                     
—Rufus Wainwright, "The One You Love"

I meet my lover’s twin brother, his mirror
for the first time at Singing Beach.
The scars and lines

of childhood mark them different,
same body hair pattern.
The one I love walks without a turn,

carefree, his eyes on the sea.
Photography is both men’s talent.
My lover tunes his colors

to extreme degree,
his world cartoon-bright and loud.
His twin likes still life:

unpeopled, unbirded, his frames full of clouds.
The ravenous brother,
right-handed with a melancholy

mouth, sucks ice coffee
through a straw, moves one foot closer
to me. We spend minutes alone in the car,

his voice a trombone, his diction
precise: these are emotions.
He wants me to know what they are.

When we dine, he asks my favorite red wine.
Pinot noir, I answer, and he orders one.
I expect he will offer me some.

He curates dessert, cherry-topped pastries,
lady fingers. Empathy must be
a muscle. I feel my biceps rise, forearms

fill with blood, hamstrings and buttocks unable
to be still. After coffee and smoke we go
to the same dark room,

warm as a womb. By the window
in a small bed snores the twin.
Against my flesh, my lover melts.

How to soothe the snoring?
What will happen
if I cross to him? In the morning,

my lover, instantly awake,
speaks with looks only. He’s where
I drink and eat, I exercise and rest, I open

and pour myself in. His skin’s
a moat around him I know now
I’ll never breach and swim, never find

a wounded sadness to match mine. We move
beneath the covers, wanting to make love,
even with the breathing mirror

in the corner, which is both madness
and a cure for madness,
but there isn’t time.


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