Warhol wasn’t the only one who loved
those Fire Island boys; marble statues
cloaked in sand, whipped by pleasure’s
Caution fainted on a thousand zippers, a
thousand eyes and tongues. There was
no such thing as a stranger’s bed.
Every mattress played the same song;
Love as if loving makes you immortal, carving
a valley of light through the shame; the
crippling years of closet-shaped posture,
breaking the spirit’s spine.
Those were the days of aquatic ecstasy: steam
baths swirling with deep sea divers trading
their handfuls of pearls, risking
their lives in the dangerous caves of
some other man who had to be entered to
prove how good, how beautiful he was,
even if only for an hour. If I could weep
as loud as they laughed and rage as hard
as they loved, maybe the young wouldn’t die so fast; alone,
on the edge of a viral abyss wailing at the red autumn
moon; God waking up to the sound of his sons, washing
the sand from their eyes.
Copyright 2022 Daniel Edward Moore
A native southerner, Daniel Edward Moore currently lives in Oak Harbor, Washington on Whidbey Island. His book, Waxing the Dents, is from Brick Road Poetry Press.