Benjamin Fisher
Untitled: Seeing things…
Seeing things reminds us of being things—special
roles for special holes in the lives of small men; the question—
do they know what men are?—Christmas,
out for a cigarette, boy tugging at his sleeve,
“Please don’t leave, please.”
Never heard such a happy boyd beg shuddering
at memories of a heavy shoulder silhouette
tiptoeing in steel toe boots—
Embarrassment is crying in a basement over too
many drinks thinking about how to shave and
all the cuts endured that girls pointed at, leaning
against lockers and what you’d say to the s[u]n
so bright you could no longer hide in glass corners—
Sometimes love is outrage over dirty catheters and
urethra infections, a failed reclamation of dignity
for the hickory that withered to dust in a
woman’s hands—And those little boys with
saucer eyes will ask the questions, will ask for
stories and hang onto cliffs made of words
hoping the ropes you fashion will hold them like
hammocks or wombs and you’ll remember a
Darwinian line hoping you are a knuckle dragger
forever.
–“Not to go on all-fours; that is the law.
Are we not men?”