Andy Perez

“your hand, red-wet with all my other selves blurring between thighs. so this is why we pray on our knees, god, are you pleased yet? father, i have found your fists in the holiest of places. at the altar, behind the church, down another boy's throat.”

“oh father, the things we do with our fists.”

“i have lost count of all the times i've tried to leave you. always, i come crawling back to the body of my monster. always, i return to the scene of my crime, my chalk outline, just to prove it cannot change me. i am your son because of blood. i am your son, am i not? you can't cut me from your stomach, can't un- swallow me. from my mother, i learned loving anything is a nauseating affair and can't be helped. from you, i was taught to make my hand a fist, how to leave bodies crippled in my wake.”

“i crawl into my lovers' bodies as i would to a grave, satiated and sweetened/sickened by your hands, hands, hands—you are everywhere in me. how hypocritical, your head sagged in prayer or something very close to it. father, i am still waiting for the flames you promised me.”