Vacuum
His father died and Tony’s body dried
Up, its oases withering to dunes
Of numbness. Something shriveled deep inside.
Bright pools of sexuality are prunes
Now. Places where moon thrills should grow are dates
At best. His lovers bring him tongues and lips
For worship. Devotees bring love on plates
And chargers. Priests bring kisses to his hips
And he feels none of their ecstatic awe,
Their reverence. His skin is sandy, blank.
They offer him ambrosia—and slaw
Is what he feels. So, titillate his flank,
Or bring your fingers up as tickling lures,
Or tongue him . . . he negates all normal cures.