..

Red

for G.T.


I want you to scream, you said. We were part
of a mingling Bushwick rabble, all spread

under the tiki bar’s red lights. Right now,
you said, and my face became hot like a slice

of Bee Sting doused in chili oil. A silent countdown
and a garble dragged out, a breathless

shriek. The muscles in my lungs made raw
from the abrasion. It sounded like a hatchling bird

whining from the nest, and it was so weak
that almost nobody turned. I felt shame

and excitement. See? you said.
I did — something cleansing about the burn,

how it revealed the tenderness underneath.
The cry speaking up for something inside, stifled.

Listen. That night, I began to take heed
of the hunger.