THE DAY I WATCHED YOU

in the heat of apollo's sun,
who favoured hector above all,
whose eyes of black
and blood of the gods
dripped on our heads, sweaty beads
of godly saliva made into
a mortals own exhaustion,
i watched you there, my
lover,
whose hands of honey and callouses
none worked on the soldiers
fallen, attentive and
keen and
witty and nice.

you knew everyone's name,
and from your tongue
they fell like water or
spring or summer's grace,
you exuberant thing of delicacy
and softness,
i am a hero, i have
no time for such manners but watching
you, which is my favourite
thing to do: helping, talking,
remembering—

—i hope you will
remmeber me watching
you there, your hands
and your legs and your
feet and thighs bare:
"did i tell you that i love this,
here?" i asked, inhaling
the crook of your neck, and you
said no,
"or here?" i asked, licking
the sweat from your chest
and thigh
and my pleasure between—

"or here,
or here,
or here?"
i asked,
knowing the
answer, but daring
you to surprise me:

"no."

you liar,
but i loved it:
watching you lie,
your tongue loose,
your eyes pleasured,
your smile lengthy,
your body shuddering.

my dear patroclus,
i watch you worry
that hector will be
the death of me, but
no.

you will be.

watching you made me mortal,
thank you, my love.