Mark Anthony Cayanan



He above all keeps his love as close to pleasure as
an empty corridor is throughout  Summers | we’ve become fast
friends, my envy & I: I make his hurts as new | as a teenager’s  I throw
away his freedom when he to | me turns & his face owns the color | of
evening before it makes itself itself  When it’s there | the wind is an
error & on the bramble of plywood & tin | hangs suspicion  It hangs
ancient, it’s new, it winks like a bullet, it’s not mine

as you know, its voice is my mother’s, it’s not | but | I’ve dropped my
ears, one per palm  They’re yours, as is  My self | is a eulogy of wishing
you would listen  For your absent | words I scalpel open my secrets
I’ve cut through arteries but plates on the sink tell me you’re
uninvolved  What’s involved in this flesh is: when I let your light |

my inner thighs, within me
gallop the long-gone years as if they hadn’t yet died
Once was I a boy & any day I’d kill to play him again

This poem previously appeared in Sentence (Youth & Beauty Brigade, 2017), a chapbook printed in the Philippines. 

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