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I’ve read of the unending field,
how bounty has no end, no limit, if you let it. You can try to hold it, your fingers insufficient, or you can drown in it. You’ll drown either way, he told me, don’t get me wrong. It’s a matter of trusting you can survive on this swirl of shining stuff: your daily cup of coffee, the promise of more time, work you love, an endless parade of surfaces to lust after. And yes, some of these will be other men, their chests slick or rough, and many dogs, their love simpler and less fraught, almost as good, and the gentle swell and roll of a life lived next to me, he said, and to him I flew, a hawk desperate for the perch of wrist, for the fragrant dark of the leather hood. |
Mark McCloughan is a transfeminine writer and artist in New York City. They were the winner of the 2018 Stanley Kunitz Memorial Prize from the American Poetry Review. They are the author of the chapbook No Harbor (2014, L + S Press) and their poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Juked, Lines + Stars, muff magazine, and decomP, among others.
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