..
INTO EACH ROOM WE ENTER
WITHOUT KNOWING
A boy dyes his shirt the iridescent sky
of dawn—or is it dusk? Rouged and glittered
he begins, smacking his lips as he slinks
into the club's deep bass hum.
Older men,
on display by the bar, slip off their tees—
leading the child
a labor of word, lyre, bark—
Ecstatic, he lurks into the back room,
slipping his tongue
through the body's shutters.
Floorboards unhinge. A skein of teeth unravels.
What pattern of occasion will free him?
- Charif Shanahan
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