Deviance: An Un-Still Life (Wet Paint)
Jennette Selig
He loves him and he doesn't love him;
his body revels in the passion,
sliding on warmth, desire weeping in vapors of breath.
Sweat dreams out of pores and paints ripples, caves
into pools where the hollows grow and linger,
wandering over outcroppings of knees and collarbones,
where richness puddles and steeps a sultry brew. Temperatures rise.
Hands stick to want without fear of overindulgence,
eyes locked on truth and body and the motion of hairtremors riding thighs,
mouths wrapped around identity, teeth clenching in the truth.
He loves him unprovoked, he loves him unnanounced,
but if their love is unimagined and untold - he doesn't love him.
Who bears witness? There is a certain sadness in this.
Why not an outspoken love - allowed as children
to be innocent and wise with stolen kisses - in sunlight even
uncovered and unafraid? Belief, recognition
that this love could be natural
as that which formed your cells
and this sex answers calls as strong
as your own hunger cries.
He loves him, despite you, he loves him
and there is fear here to be overcome
and guilt to be reminded of its artificial genesis
even as he falls into the happiest, blackest space. There is
a certain sadness in this. And a sweetness you may
never touch.
How much stronger is forbidden love.
How much more alive: desire unquit.
