[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_13/Emslie.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
I still hate the song. He fucked me
on the comedown
from his Boston ‘e’ party, quick
and neat as a well-done
execution. His young stubble
grazed my shoulder,
he feigned sleep when someone
knuckled his door.
The most romantic words he knew
were all right, let’s go
but I drew them in like his soft
imported smoke.
Later when he leaked from me
in the bathroom stall
I felt stupid and turned over,
a stopgap for a girl.
Months after the fact his Canadian
Ken doll neighbour
made an AIDS joke, gun-barrelled
frat boy laughter.
I didn’t punch him, like I didn’t punch
the South-and-proud
A&F scout who threw out faggot
easy as bro and dude.
Patrick swept the Atlantic to get away,
set himself straight.
I think I was born running: four years ago,
in six months, tonight.