Aftershock and Ernesto by Barry Frauman

AFTERSHOCK

 

My years of sureness are gone,

the brightness of my youth,

which began in ’76

when I was a man of thirty-two:

surging community after Stonewall,

smiling Brothers amid the sex,

gay theater flowering, action groups,

resplendent health paraded every June,

the nights of disco till 3 AM, and then,

“Come home with me?” “Hey, sounds fun.”

 

Now we’ve entered the time of AIDS,

joy eludes me, I can’t keep rewards.

My hands may hold them, but not my mind,

which says farewell

to poems before they're written,

operas still unsung,

and every horny guy before we cum.

 

I live in death‑shadow under the sun,

gazing at firm sweet asses of jeans

in a poisonous breeze of fear.

 

Latino man asleep on a bench

under thick black brows:

His legs sprawl gently in lightning‑white Levi's.

Oh to unzip him, nuzzle him nude,

take all of him in my mouth,

to feast until I die.

 

 

@2012 by Barry Frauman

 

ERNESTO

 

Eleven‑year‑old Mexican man

hardened by wrestling baseball swimming,

midnight thatch of hair to crown

the almond glint of Aztec eyes,

dashing Iberian smile flaring

an angular jaw and slender lips,

protected by knives of older brothers.

 

Shapeless hand‑me‑downs hide you, Ernesto

but, if we were naked, alone,

your buttocks clenched under smooth olive skin

I straddle you, I pry and pry

your fists reach round to pummel my sides,

your face aflame with boyish rage –

No, never.

 

 

 

@2012 by Barry Frauman