Boy

My eyes have wounded him by rough handling,
iris-tongued, licking his youth. I have slid him

on me every way I can imagine, finger by finger,
the whole hand. His not meeting my eyes allows

me to catch my breath, gust coals to brightness.
Even the hung portrait hungers after him, twisting

in its frame. There is a back room, a nook among boxes.
The gloves on the wall will clap as I enchant him there.