when Marvin asked me how I made Michael
I told him Michael was the residue of a
monarch butterfly's wing. a peacock feather of a son
with a ruby slippered soul
I swear the boy was born with a
metronome’s pulse. the kind that would accelerate
from the threat of cast iron skillet hands
then calm itself once the groove dropped
made Michael out of head bops
and slivers of unicorn horns and hair
rare. my son was a slow-cooked fantasy
creme brulee sprinkled with brittle blue moons
rich. rainbowed. foreign. not often. almost never.
freakishly eclectic. odd.
Michael was an amusement park:
the attraction. the exhibit. the ride. the line. the wait.
the turnstile. the harness. the climb. the drop. the slide.
the upside. the backward. the spin. the dip. the dive.
the scream. the screech. the halt.
those legs were glitter smeared somersaults
a perfect marriage of hamster wheels and Motown suede
Michael’s bravado made integration a musical
without sit-ins or protests
I made him out of patent leather shoes
sequins and shyness
made him the stage. wood. shout. strut.gravity. collapse.
a dysmorphic dance of a camera’s flash
paper mache and accordion skin
Michael was stretch. bruise. buckle. bend.
perhaps I was the reason he’d hide
behind the surgeon’s knife
chasing the child he’d never been
and when Joe asked me how I made Marvin,
I said, Marvin was the frill of the blouse
in my subconscious
a Jesus fan. a holy ghost whisperer
and crucified tongue
made him from by laws and belts
nervous twitches and put downs
a roiling rue of revenge
fits of self-sabotage
sprinkled over white-hot coals
a vineyard and a rolling hill of smooth
a du-wop. a conk. a Moonglow.
a solo. a clean high. a perversion
an addiction. a cannabis seed. a guillotine. a church.
I made him from saints. gospels. alters.
martyrs. envy and bits of my own incompetence
my son became a man on accident
made him from construction sites
stop signs
happenstance
Oops and ut oh
didn’t make him really
ineptitude is never responsible
didn’t mold him actually
only tolerated his voice
realized Jesus must love him more
it’s why I killed him.
snatched the breath of a would be riff before
it could become song
made his handsome face
a gruesome twist
of eyes of nose of brows
of lips
Jesus may have made him beautiful
but I made him gone.
I made him gone.
I made him gone.
geniuses aren’t made by mortals
God just sends them to us
when we’re not looking
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