We do not fit

You look away. I know it’s time.

I feel the nascent fear that like a lesion spreads

And darkens healthy tissue.

I smother my resentment… a sad, quiescent rage,

That neutered of its wrath, foments a new malignancy.

And with a raptor’s kiss, I bloody you.

It’s cold and we have made lubricious love,

And now sit out a damp, evaporative chill.

I hide my watch.

I’ve tried the mansuetude of liberated males,

Affected countless other formularies of behavior.

But like damp pelts from a charnel house, they never fit.

I’m sad and angry when you go.

Bill Schubart, summer 1991