by Terrance Hayes

They are like those crazy women

who tore Orpheus

when he refused to sing，

these men grinding

in the strobe & black lights

of Pegasus. All shadow & sound.

"I'm just here for the music，"

I tell the man who asks me

to the floor. But I have held

a boy on my back before.

Curtis & I used to leap

barefoot into the creek¹； dance

among maggots & piss，

beer bottles & tadpoles²

slippery as sperm³；

we used to pull off our shirts，

& slap music into our skin.

He wouldn't know me now

at the edge of these lovers' gyre，

glitter & steam， fire，

bodies blurred⁴ sexless

by the music's spinning light.

A young man slips his thumb

into the mouth of an old one，

& I am not that far away.

The whole scene raw & delicate

as Curtis's foot gashed⁵

on a sunken bottle shard⁶.

They press hip⁷ to hip，

each breathless as a boy

carrying a friend on his back.

The foot swelling⁸ green

as the sewage in that creek.

We never went back.

But I remember his weight

better than I remember

my first kiss.

These men know something

I used to know.

How could I not find them

beautiful， the way they dive & spill

into each other，

the way the dance floor

takes them，

wet & holy in its mouth.

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