I
Capture the infinity
of distance between two men
in a jar. With a damp
resembling
a season that is always passed. A space
between the beginning
and me threatens
to close like a jaw. In the jar a rag of a voice
like a pilot light burns
away all the oxygen with one greedy
whisper. Speak:
is always. In the jar. Capture. Two men.
Convex messages of glass. Dreams spilt
like a rib cage. Of poking
holes in the lid. A season
of infinity
of two men.
II
The first man to love
the stars
thought they were teeth. I prefer to think
of instead.
If candle. If one
for every man’s face
I’ll ever touch. If burning
is the consequence
of one gas inside another.
The first man to love
a man
was instead.
III
Come inside.
Tell me I’m beautiful.
IV
I’m still learning the genetics of rage: which chromosome accounts
for the biting of the tongue, which accident of base sequencing
births the brewing of a thunderhead. Put two men alone
in a quiet and you’ve committed a violence. I believe this. I really do.
V
Speak of two men and I’ll show
you the consequences. Speak like bones whittled
into weapons, cut the memory
out of my body. What I really mean
is that every origin comes with an end.
No I don’t.
Speak. Into weapons. Pull chromosomes
apart like you’re ripping
two lovers
into a memory. What
I mean.
Two men. I really.
Your greediest whisper.
If every star was a jar that could hold
two men. If every man could hold
me like the convex
of a jar. If I began
and I didn’t have to hold
the consequences. If I began with something
other than a genetics. A brewing. An instead.
I could be beautiful as a storm
settling the dust. I prefer
the dream in which
I exist beside time rather than under it. I prefer
the version where no origins,
there just is. And that’s enough.
Capture the infinity
of distance between two men
in a jar. With a damp
resembling
a season that is always passed. A space
between the beginning
and me threatens
to close like a jaw. In the jar a rag of a voice
like a pilot light burns
away all the oxygen with one greedy
whisper. Speak:
is always. In the jar. Capture. Two men.
Convex messages of glass. Dreams spilt
like a rib cage. Of poking
holes in the lid. A season
of infinity
of two men.
II
The first man to love
the stars
thought they were teeth. I prefer to think
of instead.
If candle. If one
for every man’s face
I’ll ever touch. If burning
is the consequence
of one gas inside another.
The first man to love
a man
was instead.
III
Come inside.
Tell me I’m beautiful.
IV
I’m still learning the genetics of rage: which chromosome accounts
for the biting of the tongue, which accident of base sequencing
births the brewing of a thunderhead. Put two men alone
in a quiet and you’ve committed a violence. I believe this. I really do.
V
Speak of two men and I’ll show
you the consequences. Speak like bones whittled
into weapons, cut the memory
out of my body. What I really mean
is that every origin comes with an end.
No I don’t.
Speak. Into weapons. Pull chromosomes
apart like you’re ripping
two lovers
into a memory. What
I mean.
Two men. I really.
Your greediest whisper.
If every star was a jar that could hold
two men. If every man could hold
me like the convex
of a jar. If I began
and I didn’t have to hold
the consequences. If I began with something
other than a genetics. A brewing. An instead.
I could be beautiful as a storm
settling the dust. I prefer
the dream in which
I exist beside time rather than under it. I prefer
the version where no origins,
there just is. And that’s enough.
Heath Joseph Wooten (he/him) is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. He is an avid collector of cassettes and other obsolescences, and you can find his work in or forthcoming from mutiny!, Lammergeier, DEAR, and others.