From the Fishouse

Let me explain in terms you’ll understand:
picture a boy who, starved for love, has planned
and executed another household crime,
and now his mother has discovered him

and glowers down from the bright ceiling where
her face is the dark sun, and the ear-whir
of fear and desire mounts, for soon she’ll speak
his name with passion and meet his pale dry cheek

with the full sail of her hand, loosing the tears
of shame and gratitude — all the boy cares
to know of bliss. And then forget his trauma
with its dysfunctional-family melodrama,

and think of me with her to whom all heads
bow as to the body’s harshest, best-loved gods.