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“from what we cannot hold the stars are made”
	- WS Merwin

In writing the definitive text on the state of the body
in rooms I must include you Belinda & the half-hour

phone call during which you described in hushed 
& lurid detail the jacuzzi party to which I had not been 

invited it commenced as this boy or that made a proposal 
& through their nervous giggling the other boys agreed & so 

the night's agenda had been set & soon as the requisite 
protests were charmed out of the way it began unrehearsable 

ritual kiss & kiss & on to the next you let me in 
on who over-employed the tongue who turned 

your kneecaps to pats of butter then spoke of the exhibition
& caressing of breasts you reported on the unspeakable 

tenderness with which a mouth encircled your nipple then another 
two boys you’d known since middle school & loved & trusted & ruby

light dervished into your body I heard it even over the telephone a tiny you 
in a ruby dress settling at the ruby piano in your chest ruby spotlights drenching

the diva you had in a breathless moment become & I was envious 
Belinda of you the boys your gleaming new story of the secret 

thronging through your bones the steam that stayed 
behind to hold you after that heard the clanging of 

your bellish heart built its fleeting mansions in your hair I wished to 
disappear in that oblivion of softness ascend into the drowsy 

heaven of your arms how could I have known that it would be years 
until my own clumsy debriefing how could I predict the countless 

chatrooms beseeching screen names to show me their flesh rattling 
like a haunted telescope as I worshipped a terror I'd mistaken 

for goodness how can anything be known over the rumbling 
of those engines you hung up the phone & I went mad 

for sixteen years I stood in the road cut off my fingers hurled them at 
the ambivalent sky I have kissed & touched & fucked & I remember 

each moment as though it’s all been imagined oh Belinda 
let me start over 		

 A beautiful boy lies back on his bed. 
He’s just hung up the telephone. 

Everything is only beginning. 
A life of impossible bliss.


About Jeremy Radin

Jeremy Radin is a poet/actor living in Los Angeles. His first book, "Slow Dance with Sasquatch", is available from Write Bloody Publishing. You may have seen him on "It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia" or "CSI" or "Zoey 101" or in a restaurant aggressively eating pancakes by himself. View all posts by Jeremy Radin

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