You’ve been caught,
accused and condemned
in barely a breath. Bindings
ensnarl your chafed wrists
wrenched back beyond
your failing flexibility.
The sweat-and-vinegar
blindfold snuffs the sun,
but not heat, oppressively
still air, not murmurs
of gathered people
four stories below,
not the whimper of your lover—
beautiful man
that he is—likewise bound.
The sentence uttered
is brief,
feather-light.
The man you once knew
crumples, then
is hoisted aloft.
You pray, that like Icarus, he’ll find his wings and ride thermals
between the sun’s heat and the shattered cinder blocks below.
He’ll fly to the Neverland where men like you marry,
where they throw you parades and gift you rainbows.
The ruined noise echoes its report
from cavernous buildings
and broken cement.
Bound and brought
to a ledge, you
are freed of gravity—
desperate to fly like the doves
tossed from the ark
looking for dry land.
[The original week of this posting in October 2015, ISIS released proof that they’d been executing gay men in multiple cities by throwing them off buildings.
Check out other original poems here.]
Jaffalogue 