If he does not find himself
in the ghost-black reflection 
of cool water or lose himself
deluged in his own baptism,
he might never know what
it means to love someone. 

Imagine liquid hot as lightning
and forget Narcissus has a will. 
His body must be the next closest
thing to water to touch*, torso
a shocking wave of muscle and
vein. Empty except for an outline,  

a face that is almost transparent. 
He learned to hide in his own skin,
to find consolation in places where
no one can echo or erase his name.
Lost in a cloak of petals, forced
to embrace only his beauty,  

he knew that if he could break
the mirror with his weight,
he would—to make himself 
sexless, an undoing, pistils and 
stamen undressed. As his thirsts 
began to harden on him, 

he knew he would always be 
trapped beneath the surface, 
a picture no one can trace, 
his longing an electric pulse
numbing the reach of his body,
always asking the question 

who’s there?

who’s there?

*the line “next closest/ thing to water to touch” is borrowed from Jamaal May’s poem, “Hum for the Bolt”