My little boy heart wants to titty-fuck everything.

It wants a bigger penis, wants to know what to do

with growth, wants the woman behind the counter

at 7-Eleven to keep her back turned, her arm pumping

the squeeze cheese over its tortilla chips, wants her

to keep loose count of the Camel Lights on the countertop.

My little boy heart wants one of the hundred left

lotto tickets in the parking lot to be lucky.

My little boy hearts believes in Santa

more than Jesus. It wants extra

crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken for breakfast,

wants to kick and scream and throw

the ball great distances, wants the soap to stay

out of the mouth no matter what shit it speaks,

no matter its small hands lifting

a twenty from its mother’s pocketbook.

My little boy heart can’t tie knots, wears Velcro shoes

and Hypercolor tee-shirts so when it beats and heats up

its colors change, so when you grab it

you will know green means jealousy, blue is blueness.

My little boy heart wants an indoor swimming pool,

wants to wear floaties forever, wants to be lifted,

never sinking, never gasping for air,

never forced to look up to pray to a cloud.

My little boy heart wants to be brave as an astronaut.

It wants Kevin Costner to build it

so he will come, wants Kevin Costner to go

the distance, to ease his pain and walk

with the pained through a cornfield

until everyone evaporates, until the pain is no more

significant than a finger caught in a car door.

Photo by Sarah Horrigan