In what my dad describes as a pure teak
bed, his dad got built in 1955, I plunder
the history of my entire family, in a single night.
Nero, who is still
clumsy at best, hurts his bare feet
as I laugh in distance. The trees that
were on the window pull up and stare,
Shake violently in protest.
This vulgar desire that has long existed
in monochrome, reveals to me
Nero’s face in freckles, his hand
playing with my hair as the smell
of his perfume, eucalyptus, escapes the room
and entices the gods too,
makes the mirrors jealous, sit up
in surprise, as my eyes move back
to Nero’s again. I taste the soft skin
on his neck, go down, the bridge
his back, his muscles defined
through history. As perverse sounds
fill the room, penetrate walls.
My memory fades, I forget if Nero
is who he says, if his language
is one I speak.
Our voiceless faces in exile
console each other all night.
It is kindness that keeps us together,
plundering teak beds for pleasure
In lost homes.