David In Gowanus

 

this may be self referential—

mimicking my movements in the mirror,

practicing the masculine until i understand

the point of speaking without my hands

and fingers unfurling in fans around my face.

 

there’s a part of me that doesn’t get it.

why wouldn’t i frame myself for others,

my nails dripping gold flakes, rhinestones,

gelatin ombré that match my lids?

 

surely men can be great beauties,

cocked like Donatello’s David;

with feathered hats to adorn our nudity,

hands upon our bronzed hips.

 

this is what i’m learning while i’m looking in the mirror:

 

        i’ll want another man to love me. i’ll want silicone between my legs.

        i’ll want my patchy beard to fill out. i’ll want veins pulsing in my fist.

        i’ll want to kiss the air like flowers blooming in the spring.

        i’ll want so much it stings.

 

looking lazily through my lashes,

black mascara that i wear seldom

will creep along the waterline,

pool inside the corner of my eye—

an ink inlet in wait.

 

& i’ll blink at me to see the Gowanus roll down my cheek.

 

one day, artists will gather along this canal

and in oil paints summon my mustache,

subtle over my peeling lips. hang me

in their warehouse studios so strangers

may contemplate my shoulders.

 

the channel is still forming, because I haven’t broke my gaze yet—

i’m just staring until the mirror dizzies, and i can see my face.