Butterflies
By Kyle Okeke
How fun is it to be “at risk,” to flicker
like the monarchs born daredevils?
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Black, I have a 50% chance
to get HIV in my lifetime.
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I love my brother.
He still calls me a faggot
when he’s angry. I think he loves me.
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A glass mirror is a good comedian, edgy and reflective.
Though my brother is more
like a lake when he kills a crowd
of me. I walk in and somehow another me
survives to do the same.
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I once asked a man to hit me and call me a faggot.
I thought I’d like it.
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The ember is the best unit of sex.
It left a kaleidoscope
in my temple of stained glass: torches
cast through the image of a torch, a race
between the flames and the string
of saliva thinning—
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An arrogant priest
thinks he knows what’s on the other side
of the glory-
hole.
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Candles are the worst at worship
and war. They cry silently
as they burn, rimming
the darkness, running
themselves
down
to the base. The vigil
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is over.
Submerged, I saw the lanterns blinking
above water before they, too,
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sunk.
Is the poem an ember,
a lake,
or a hole
I run my tongue through?
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The answer is, I loved my brother, then
I loved him.
