First,
a cough
fills his lungs
like locusts,
language ruining
every breath,
every breath ruining him.
By now, he knows
I won’t forgive him,
and he won’t ask me to
this time.
But still, I love him
and his calloused hands
worked for years
to exhaustion
now clutching
at his chest
with each attempt
at breath.
His heart
exhausted
with each caustic cough.
Each cough,
the prognosis
of his becoming
rotten,
like rotting meat,
rotting everything
he touches
his breath blotting
everything
with smoke.
By now,
he knows this,
but hugs me
anyway.
And so, I pray
for him
for the first time.
I pray
as if the God
he believes in
is a God. I pray
for his cigarette—
stained lungs,
blackened,
and burnished
with smoke,
with smoke so thick,
he can hardly breathe.
I pray
for his scorched throat
itching to remind him
of the ash
and tobacco
that made a home
in his chest
and grew
into a cancer
tearing
at his throat.
I pray,
if I had questioned once before,
if a man
could learn to love
another man,
if a man could learn
to forgive, and be forgiven
that this, is not the answer.

Eliot Wilde is a non-binary, gay, Mexican-American writer. They were born and raised in the south-side of Oklahoma City, and studied Creative Writing at New York University. Their writing has appeared in the Chicago Literati, Ohio Edit, WordRiot, and in the Lust zine of Killerandasweetthang.