April 11, 2005
From “Works of Mercy”
I am a man now, too, not unlike my father who ran about town recklessly unfolding before people then came home to us who waited for him. He came home to us, that throttling man: the one who bounced with me in the ocean then kissed the salt wet in my hair, who held our mother down in anger or in love above her all-the-while drifting call John, John, who slung a stag's carcass across his shoulders and strode out of a forest into a clearing where light shone intermittently. This is what men do. They touch and spread desire.
