Harpies, Faggots, Syrens,
Black Penelopes by another
name, the unsung at the other end
of the phone,
“beautiful,” beautiful
/
Kept, waiting, golden silhouette
drizzled down the middle of the
unmade bed that smells like
tensed manhood. Shimmering, sweaty, it’s july,
you lie naked beneath Adidas shorts,
sensing every quake through
your bed, preying. Cleansing yourself of
sin with fleets at the gate to this,
your temple. A massage
with this tongue left you
here, until his return. You
sacrifice a few first borns
on their knees in his stead and
wonder how you and Samson both
lost power when it was you who
made your cut?
\
Incense to the wood,
lavender and lilac candles
blown into wisps, you
put on just hints of that
sexy citrus cologne with a promise
to save some. But for whom
do your bangles chime? Brother to brother,
jewelry ain’t no use when it’s this dark,
Willow februaries looking for Sunlight,
the film.
The way he used to snap Calvin drawers
against your waist, and your tongue
tripped upwards to explain how breaking pains turn
to collapsing pleasures because your eyes landing against
his, you’re stuck at 16:02pm in the city, feeling particularly small,
believing
in stars.
KEENAN TEDDY SMITH was born in Flint, Michigan, and is working as a research assistant at Columbia University’s Center for Ethnic Studies. His writing has appeared as prose in PAPER Magazine, The Advocate, and RaceBaitr, while his poetry has appeared in Holler Magazine, American Chordata, and T: the New York Times Style Magazine among others. His writing expands on the vocabulary of the aesthetics of Black queer men, reimagining their often stigmatized sexuality through works which help build an aesthetic vocabulary for Black queer family, love, and imagination.