Ap­pli­ca­tion

The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

For a man who only loves the torso this must be heaven Holy, the pho­to­graph’s mad be­head­ing

Lo, the framed anus Lo, the cat­fish Lo, the white man pos­ing with the cat on his chest

Holy the shadow beard Holy the arm arched + ten­dered above the back Holy the tro­jan, the right­now, the john23

O, the pic­tures we take of our sim­ple sex lit + fil­tered cig­a­rette O, ex­ile is a writ­ten lan­guage + its dig­i­tal equiv­a­lent is drool­ing

Drive west a mile to be choked by a stranger Walk a block south to kneel on black + white linoleum North is money + a mouth to empty in­side

Who bet­ter but all who want it, to host the host on their tongue

Glory, the new houses i’ve be­come a part of with a sim­ple smear of se­men be­low the couch Glory, the fam­ily por­traits smil­ing as the hus­band drowns be­hind me Glory, the hole that opens + moves as i move

sup / look­ing / you close you swal­low / you travel / you host

Of course the greek root of icon is a god The plate of light i reach my hand through + feel it pulse Around my arm

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