the troubles with boys

During a late night conversation with friends, Jay and I disagree. It’s the one about writing – storytelling. I’ve said I’m not a writer. Jay and the boys don’t like the sentiment. They follow his prodding like open mouthed baby birds and I wonder if they’ll peck themselves to death if left hungry for too long. They want me to take my turn with talent. People have been singing. Playing instruments. Reading poems. Tell us a story they’re chanting. I don’t do that I say through the rhythmic clashes of their glasses against the tabletop. Come on Jay chides – digging his fingers into my thigh -- move us with some words. Fuck you, I mouth and then laugh to break the tension. Scan my tired memory for something. Something short. Anything. Take my turn. Stand on the coffee table. Not sure if I remember all the words. Sigh.

The metallic tastes of fingers
And other unnamable pleasures
Of distant metallic tastes
Held swiftly in the mouth
Like the barrel of a gun
Clutched between teeth
Pressed like a thumb – against the tongue
And at times
Guitar picks
Plucked from hands
To be sucked
Like piercings
In ears and other places
Or the blood on a lip
That’s been bit
By a mouth poised full of
Luster.