Sliding My Tongue Along a Gold Mirror
By Josh Tvrdy
seven
Cramped room
with my sound-
asleep brothers,
I fantasize
filth—rivers
of piss I need
to cross, glasses
of spit & sweat
I need to drink
or else ... (else
what? punishment?
a pallid hand
forcing the glass
to my lips?) I tell
nobody, my silence
delicious, slick
imaginings tucked
inside my mind’s
velvet folds.
Even now, I know
my wanting’s
tilted, in-
grown, & I don’t
care. Not yet.
Curiosity hasn’t
curdled. What
the body can’t
keep, or keep
for long, feels
holy. Precious
excess. Sour
honey. Oceans
of piss & spit
& sweat & me
an island, a tongue
in a bucket of salt.
ten
I steal a plastic cup
inside the shower,
piss it half-
full, drink myself
down. I don’t
hate the taste (like
running my tongue
along a warm
mirror) & don’t
do it just once—
my nightly
play, my body
taking back
its golden oil.
thirteen
Udall Park, alone
in a public
bathroom, afraid
some hairy-armed
dad will burst
inside, I pluck
a pubic hair
from a neon blue
urinal cake,
then drop it
(sleek, coiled,
a cursive letter)
on my tongue.
fourteen
I watch Dad watch
what I watched
late last night
on the family
computer—a man
wearing nothing
but leather, lapping
month-old piss
from a piss trough.
This is yours,
Dad says, not
a question,
his face blue
with screen-glow,
his eyes strapped
to that leather
man. I want
to yank the cord
from the wall,
want to touch
his shoulder
& apologize, but I
can’t move. Can’t
explain myself.
Dad wrenches
his eyes away. Says
nothing. Leaves
the room, the screen
still flashing.
fifteen
Alone, older
brother beating
on the locked
bathroom door
(he needs to shit),
I rip my pubes
in pinched
clumps, my skin
pink, raw,
color of evening
primroses—flowers
which sprout
in our front yard
like sickness.
seventeen
Parents long
asleep, I piss
inside a plastic
bottle. Stash it
under my bed,
way back,
& for months
it festers—yellow
turns gold, turns
orange turns cider-
brown & just
the briefest sniff
leaves me dizzy
with wanting.
twenty
Finally away
from home, I live
in a crumbling house
owned by an old
oil painter (smeared
lilacs & tulips
on the walls).
Most nights, I lie
in her claw-foot tub,
use piss for lube
& jack myself off.
Afraid she’ll hear,
I stuff my fist
inside my mouth.
twenty-two
I’m into piss,
I finally tell
A, & A
pulls away,
asks, Piss?
Piss. He
laughs, says
I’m not
into that,
then pushes
me flat, bites
my lip.
four
Summer, sun
so hot it peels
paint from sheds.
Dad’s thumb
on the rim of the hose,
feathering water.
I dance for him
& he smiles,
then steps hard,
choking the stream
to a sputter. The hose
trembles. I want him
to raise his foot,
to release
another fountain.
twenty-four
D’s pure
vanilla, good
at what he does,
which is nothing
but zipper-lipped
kissing, fucking,
cuddling, goo-goo
gah-gah blah.
Long weeks
I want to want
his gentleness,
wish my lust
would take
a tender shape—
but tonight, mid-fuck,
pinned on his faux-
leather couch,
raw need hooks
the words straight out—
Piss on me ... & D
does. He pulls
out, waits
for his dick to wilt
then spills—
& it isn’t
the piss, but what
his piss says,
which makes me
cum, then cry.
Source: Poetry (January 2022)