In my nail-bitten teen years I
was the proverbial fly tangled in
many a web

I know I ground several layers of enamel
from my teeth, which tastes of; heart’s iron and
soul’s amalgam

those rainy Saturday nights mocked me, waiting,
trying to picture wantonness in her eyes

in any lover’s eyes

my mother used to shake her head at me slowly
not in a mocking way, but more like, ‘my son, my son,
reel-in your heart, and let it

The house was my detention, a monk’s
forced vow of silence, a lustful fast, a
muted radio singalong
with one hand on the phone and
the other, writing her name
on a breath-fogged

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