By Billy Butler
I’d been to his city before,
but I was still a tourist
pushing against a current
of people so I could meet him
for dinner. We walked back
to my hotel, a nicer room
than I could afford, as the sun set
over a hazy coast. We kissed.
We came at the same time
and he cried a little. I said I had to pee,
stood up, and he looked like he wanted
to say something, then did; he asked
if he could be on his knees beneath me
on the bathroom tile, supplicant.
The floor has a drain, he said,
that’s rare. I wanted to give him
what he wanted, though it wasn’t
something I’d wish for myself.
How many chances
do you get to live a fantasy?
When he stuck out his tongue,
I told him good boy as I had been told
by other men—and I couldn’t help
but think of the insufficient description
affixed to years of my urinalysis:
yellow; ochre; clear.
Language will always fail us,
as it fails me now when I think
of how to describe
the expression on his face
when he looked up at me
and murmured, thank you.
I said nothing, then kneeled
to kiss him
like a ceremony
without a name.
*
Previously published in Shō Poetry Journal
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #3. To return to the table of contents, click here.
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