THE BOY SCOUT AND THE ANARCHIST
for C.C.
I smell butane fluid as I press the lighter
with both thumbs, plastic biting,
and you tell me about unbranched alkane
and four carbon atoms.
Your baby sister will only press buttons on the phone
with both thumbs, plastic biting,
when she hears your lecture voice.
The outlets and country codes are different in England.
She'll be four and think
your voice sounds funny,
like how my Florida cousins pinch their noses
and bare their teeth
when they try to say
"assassins" like I do. ("Pop" and "soda".)
You tell me about cast iron pots, absorbing soap
and oil and simmering leek soup, your glasses steaming
over the mold and metal sink, you don't mean to impose
on my boundaries; I stick my tongue in your ear.
I drop the "under god" when I say the pledge of allegiance,
and even that's mumbling;
contorted wrist, I slap the tattoo scab on my back
and wear your boxers.
You have a crooked nose and a chin.
You gag when you brush your teeth.
You were von Trapped, walk one foot
in front of the other
with your wool socks, fleshy boy legs,
one pinky toe bicycle axle cut off, call me sir,
and I bounced my knees popcorn-style on a mattress
and said the alphabet wrong
even though my dad wanted me to say it in order. A, B,
Z, F, G, T, C, D, E, F, G, H, J, J, L, A, K.
"Come on," he said,
was and still is two syllables Da-Da.
You jerked off to Mrs. Robinson, tightened
your scout neckerchief ($6.00),
fingered your troop number shoulder patch ($2.70),
pants (regulation no cuffs) undone
just halfway, hand half-dry,
spit, and scraped by the zipper.
I had the Pink Power Ranger pog,
even though I wasn't supposed to watch the show.
I rubbed a table leg,
went snow sledding on a plastic bag,
wanted to kiss it better when I scraped my girlfriend's forehead
with the edge of my glasses.
Her step-mom loved Jesus and hated me. I said pass the ketchup,
but I touched her thigh, up and up and up.
You're like a little boy
when you breathe against my chest.
We sleep under an insulated blanket, the tags scratch
at the insides of my ear,
train noises outside the window my trigger for sleep--
these days it's more dying
animals on the tracks
than calm, predictable whistle,
empty carriages and lung breaths all full,
but your trimmed-nail fingers (brisk, regulation clippers)
twitch with your R.E.M.,
and sleep's not far from me, either.
Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine (http://www.breadcrumbscabs.