sob muffler                                                                                                

back when you used to think I was seamless and little
when you would listen to good records, drinking good beer
letting me pretend your arms held
these boy limbs together
giving it form and heir status
to your sort of prelude to masculinity

back when our feet shared wool rugs and stolen socks
aging soles marking south american streets
hurt by pebble stones, but too white to suffer
when all you’d cried was once
and when my tears you could comprehend
because they were predictable
and un-molested

back when boys were faceless and handsome
asexual but male, and immune to misery and crime
back when we feigned dialogue and honesty
and plastered wall oblivion
you gave me a kite

and you said make it fly
but when I said my kite flew to a different kind of wind
that it stared at another direction
you told me all kites flew the same
and that you had to make your fingers bleed
to make it dance right in the sky

today I am sending you back your kite
along with the cleats, the jerseys and the six o’clock in the mornings in disgracefully moist soccer fields
along with the claps, and the laughter, and Verne, and Crusoé,
and the eyes that saw ugliness in yet-to-bloom youth

it wasn’t the kite that had to fly
not the kite