I know when he began to dance with me
cranberries started to burn in pocket—
I smelled red smoke of sugar under my
feet, sugarfoot, a boy worth burning for—
and into his pants I’d push my white hands,
deeper into the sweeter red currant
in a darkened cell until he was done;
then into a lit cell, where I was king
if music played we sat down fast, out, down
into the red fruit mashed in my lap like
Turkey. Musical chairs with the pilgrims
who came here on the rock to fuck him good
Oh Bill, if you were living at this hour
I’d put little socks on your two bare feet
and spoon this dressing into your wet throat
till you choked and spat all over my bib
I’d give you such a gift of red white meat
you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week
unless to eat at the mantelpiece with clock,
bawling pilgrims thrusting your ass with fire
ferret teeth in the breast of a red bird
I would call it to your memory now
that a phantasmal fog of love had enthralled me to you
then, but not only then, in these my words
the tear in the fabric, now, the drop of blood.