Flickered images of lust trickle through the screen
treacle for your sweet-toothed tastes
poking, probing, sighing with me
moving your hands as you channel hop through
the array of bodies arching in directed pleasure.
A hopeless web of family fractures
requiring amputation or expensive reconstruction
breaking the hammers that beat my blue, bruised shame.
Brother in the bathroom
Lover in the bedroom
Darling with another name.
Mother screams from downstairs
To wash our hands and come to table
pray together in the catholic kitchen
for food and family love,
then it’s late and the light crack of hall light
fills my room, your scaring eyes behind
you hold me and rock with the couples on the screen
Brother in the bedroom
Darling in the bedroom
Lover with a brother’s name.
Phillip O’Neil writes from England.