Years after school
I’m licking Mike’s armpits
after drinks, a lone card
table furnishing his newly
acquired apartment, questionable
carpet threadbare and worn
underneath. At first our mouths
lock like paving bricks splitting
lawn from burial plot confused 
for garden, a freshly dead pet
today, decades from the Mike
so openly flaming my shine
dimmed and hid, so many 
Mikes rivaling the Jennifers. 
But now the brown rum
slick as spit splits this time
from then, our breath burning
off the alcohol like baby fat 
with kissing. A whole person
missing more of himself 
than I allow, struggling
to prick another belt notch 
with the antique ice pick 
housewarming gift. Mike
at each crease unfolds
newborn-soft and overhead
I crack like a concrete slab 
invaded by crabgrass,
lying so much on him
only once is enough.