I do not understand how the trace
of fingertips across the back of my neck
has a gender— the press of lips

to my temple, the sobs that rattled
my ribcage like a ghost shaking
the walls of a place it longed to leave,

your arms both the exorcist and
the blessing— but you would not
have held me so close had you known

I was a boy. I could have held you
together through the long nights
when poetry could not contain

whatever clawed at the edges
of your mind— you named it
monkey, demon, mania—

but I’ve always known how
to talk it into silence. You believe
that no man could have this power

over you. I say that I do not
understand why you love must
attach itself to gender.