Shantih Journal 2.1 - Page 60

Aphelion peter laberge Orlando They are the boys I could’ve been had my body slimmed & dropped like a comet into the barrel of the gun— though even in the face of smoke they don’t apologize for being queer. By dawn the club is taxidermied—preserved in memory, despite the trace of a pulse. In his dream, a dying boy is locked in the unlit cellar of his childhood home with no candle & no mouth. Once a queer body is the only bullet in the gun, the man re-loads & watches his warped face in each gold cylinder. Meanwhile, God drops the moon into a foxhole, fingers laced together as the bleeding boys reach for each other in his hands. Regret is something these men do not possess. How queer & red God’s stained hands turn. Previously appeared in Tin House 60