when we reenact st. sebastian

i will thrust a score of arrows

and caress your black licorice hair.

syrupy mouths will waltz whilst

secretly canonizing one another,

one-two-three, one-two-three until

the rich buttercream dawn cries

“gentlemen, last call for drinks.”

sweat and sunshine will be to us

as olive oil to the bathers of rome:

we will wash ‘til smooth and slick,

our bodies hot gold on the anvil

of some hapless blind blacksmith.

wearily, i’ll grab the shafts and pluck

the arrows out, mopping blood

with doilies and sweet coconut,

famished for your resurrection.