1. The Golden Book Encyclopedia Volume 10 first trapped my eye with the men’s lion jawlines, chests I felt as fulfillment before I knew the word, cartoonish simplicity that spoke perfectly to my six- year-old world. Next, the book, feeling the need to unsettle my romance, showed me Adam and David’s empty groins, smooth and white like the bowl I ate Corn Flakes from. I trembled in the tub, worried I’d be mutilated when I was grown. As my pajamas were pulled on I asked who had made the men in the book. My mom rattled off a name my tongue couldn’t hook. “The boy was not well liked,” she read. “His story is one of many quarrels with popes.” I shivered and slid deeper into the bed. Maybe he cut theirs off too.
2. If he had already faced the giant, the boy would clutch in one fist the dripping head by its hair and in the other a sword (a weapon no shepherd could afford) tempered by Philistine blood. His right hand has taken the sling I’m tempted to see as a loin- cloth, his only clothing just pulled off or about to be donned, resting in the crux of his raised shoulder and turning neck. His left hand at his thigh is strong not from fight but from herding earth’s gentlest creatures. The fingers, curling as though to scratch, cradle the agent of the tall man’s fall. The body which furs and maidens will warm in old age is sovereign. He feels the tremor against his soles, still distant. Time to imagine his curls caught in a crown.
3. For those of us who will never be king, whose forms are never complete there is no more perfect expression of the potential than this unfinished slave writhing in his sheet, this promise of an unfinished grave. I have seen you stretched on our bed in this very pose, one hand behind your head, fingers knotted in your disheveled hair, the other hand lifting your shirt, leaving your stomach bare. Your fingers explore the depression at the lower tip of your sternum. Your equally unfinished mate strains at his bonds, flexing for fight.
1.
The Golden Book Encyclopedia
Volume 10 first trapped my eye
with the men’s lion jawlines,
chests I felt as fulfillment
before I knew the word,
cartoonish simplicity that
spoke perfectly to my six-
year-old world. Next, the book,
feeling the need to unsettle
my romance, showed me Adam and
David’s empty groins, smooth
and white like the bowl I ate
Corn Flakes from. I trembled in
the tub, worried I’d be mutilated
when I was grown. As my pajamas
were pulled on I asked who had
made the men in the book. My
mom rattled off a name my
tongue couldn’t hook. “The boy
was not well liked,” she
read. “His story is one of many
quarrels with popes.” I
shivered and slid deeper into the
bed. Maybe he cut theirs off too.
2.
If he had already faced the giant,
the boy would clutch in one fist
the dripping head by its hair and
in the other a sword (a weapon
no shepherd could afford)
tempered by Philistine blood.
His right hand has taken the sling
I’m tempted to see as a loin-
cloth, his only clothing just
pulled off or about to be donned,
resting in the crux of his raised
shoulder and turning neck.
His left hand at his thigh is strong
not from fight but from herding
earth’s gentlest creatures.
The fingers, curling as though to
scratch, cradle the agent of the
tall man’s fall. The body which
furs and maidens will warm in
old age is sovereign. He feels the
tremor against his soles, still
distant. Time to imagine his curls
caught in a crown.
3.
For those of us who will
never be king, whose forms are
never complete there is no more
perfect expression of the
potential than this unfinished
slave writhing in his sheet,
this promise of an unfinished
grave. I have seen you
stretched on our bed in this
very pose, one hand behind your
head, fingers knotted
in your disheveled hair, the other
hand lifting your shirt, leaving
your stomach bare. Your fingers
explore the depression at the
lower tip of your
sternum. Your equally
unfinished mate strains at his
bonds, flexing for fight.