by Raul Meza
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip over and
over, the skin broken and red. the man
breathes, shuddering, the man was me and
begs for me to kiss our lips. i don’t. I do.
or rather I will. but not now. the man has
a lesson learned.
will you love me, Sir the man asks and
I hum as I inspect my art on his back. i
couldn’t love him. I love him. Adore him
worship him sing him hymns under my
breath run my hands over the temple I
will carve out of his body. lines kiss skin
sketching my rage my sorrow my hubris
my sheer audacity at the belief that
i could teach this lesson. i couldn’t but
I can he would never learn but He would.
do you love me, Sir the man asks again
and I run a finger down our joy striped
on his back. true joy involves this pain
involves scarring as I have learned as i
don’t know but he will suffer learn and
He will be happy. Always, we will.