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Wynn Yarbrough

from Cupid OK

 

I.          Rediscover, In Text and Want

 

Want history.  Want real history of small, winged boys—their slings

their outrageous arrows, their finicky curls.  Coy, cupescient—feel

 

their flutter near your navel, word play, longing eyelashes lashed

to rumors and revolt.  Feel, letter by letter on pixellated screen,

 

their feathers near your neck.  On-line we boys lacing around your ear,

your clavicle.  I’ve clipped my wings, removed the emoticon ruse.

 

Lost and found, online, I want to play with your now body, with

my know how, with this knew you new unknown.  You want,

 

I want our history, this history.  Let’s battle in the type and send,

textual posture, a same song sing.  Slightly chubby, infantile,

 

nothing langorous  from this side, from arrow-trained eyes. 

Cocksure, corkscrewed—you, too.  Know this me in email,

 

in text and want, in promised rumor, revolt, in rue.

 

-

 

II.        Here’s My Posting, Loverboy

 

So, no single.  So, no pressure.  Hear whistles

in grieving leaves plush in their bluster.  Hear

 

the high pitched sieve behind this computer screen.

Stealing you, stealing backward.  I found your picture,

 

a kind of rapture.  Found your tears, found

you still, found you untethered.  So, let’s untangle.

 

So, no dangling artifice and all the webbing

one could string to mosaic and mash-up.

 

Essentially, unmarried possibilities.  Essentially,

thriving differences.  Essentially, rare and raw, potentially. 

 

-

 

III.       You’ve Found Me Mother

 

From this side of the keyboard, you ride

my insecurity.  This text and that text,

 

and no sex.  I’ve got these and this, throw

in that.  I’ve got mainframe redone, got syntax

 

wrecked.   Tame my post-coital, post-

marital, lost and found, spin around,

 

my children eating worms on a playground blues.

Blue water on blue day through blue shadows—

 

only river and parkway.  Puzzle my play

with myself sideways, divorced body,

 

forced body, mommy body.  By the way,

how is this circling circus, this new us

 

unknown.  No money, no need for sperm,

no need for boys with feathers. Run.

 

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