We haven’t had rain
so I’m out here, thumb against the mouth
of the hose, spraying full force
and fretting that I’ve botched the roses—
when he crosses the lawn
in his terrycloth robe, leans
against the car, and cries.
I start toward the faucet,
but no, he says, keep on.
So I stand there, stream trained
on the crew cuts of the ornamental grasses
while he tells me he got gonorrhea
from his partner’s twenty minute suck-off
with a guy in a car on West Cliff.
Using nicer words. This is a man
who walks me home at night
though it’s only next door.
I stroke his back. The hardness
surprises me. It’s muscled as a tree.
He stands barefoot on the cold cement,
one foot lapped up on the other.
Tears pool in the shallows
under his eyes which are pale blue
and, I realize, too far apart.
As sun tops the cedars and hits
him full face, he doesn’t raise a hand
against it, just goes on, I thought we were …
I watch his mouth as he speaks, his chapped lips,
the sheen of pale stubble. But mostly
his teeth—they shine in the light,
slightly yellow, intricately striated,
tiny vertical fissures like the crazed
enamel of an old vase,
like stress lines in ice.
I can’t take my eyes off his teeth—
and inside, the wet pink gums,
glistening, and so vulnerable
like something being born
right there, on the street,
with cars going by.