His hips were the hips of a boy,
his eyes the eyes of an old man.
An impossible moon graced his father’s
shoulder, one of many transmissions.

How it turned green in the
passing, that orb. How it
highlighted the similar bone
structures. How the snake draped
across the boy’s shoulders glinted
in its light.

Denim is manly. Or not.
The moon is not.
A snake for a boy signals
not rising kundalini, but
the rising sap of manhood.
How will he hold his lover’s
hand through the hail? How
will his lips find another’s
when the elevator jerks to a
stop, no clear exit?

And will he remember how
sturdy, how firm a father
he had, the day his dad
gave him the moon?
Or will it, the moon, cause
the boy/man’s bangs to stick
up, cause a troubling ruffle
in his chest where something
someone is missing, not his
mother exactly, but something
someone close?

The snaps will be undone,
the head shaved, hallowed
music swayed to, meteors
hitting the grey still hills
on a night he least expects it.

And somewhere someone
draws the man/boy a
bath.

SoulCollage card as a prompt.

Writing note: once you begin writing, the prompt doesn’t matter anymore. I was tempted to post the poem without the image, but I couldn’t resist sharing it.

The man here is a the founder of Mitchell hair products, entrepreneur, and billionaire. Thanks, as always to magazines for their fertile images, none of which are being sold.

Later: can’t believe I found the guy’s name: it’s John Paul Dejoria.