he wakes in the middle of the night to ask me if he could be better than god.
According to legend, god created all things: the matcha that congeals in our

unwashed glasses :: the waterbugs that crawl from tub drain :: the junegrass
we choke with rubbersoles :: the pigs that died for our dinner, the drugs that

swell them. god made the lymph nodes :: made the magnolias that eyelash
the yards on the rich folk’s lawns :: the atlas moth :: the robin’s tweet battered

throat :: the plastic fusing with rock on Brazilian coast, the waters that lap there
and the turtles that migrate their eggs through turquoise sand.      The silkworms

that siphoned from themselves my bonnet, god made them. god made him—
made his hair black as the smell of brand-new tires :: made him a voice always

crackling like a Christmas candle :: made his eyes canyon, made them brown.
‍Better at what? Into the dayblack cavern of my ear, he says making.

“quickly, then, the worst was over, i could comfort him.”
—Sharon Olds

when you came, with him          riding the ceramic
steeled toe           of your mid-summer boots,
i was grateful, the way the body       is grateful
for the pyrite of heat          when dying of cold.

i want to say            that you shocked me, dear friend
that you were conceived,                     gestated,
c-sectioned                          between good morning kiss
and abrupt disillusion                      but there were hints

of you—a sex life                     reduced to closet floor
handjobs,                  a newfound love of square jawlines,
and season                         fourteen of drag race,
a script of figuring                    things out,

coupled                            with automated reassurances.  
that even when he leaned                     over banquet table
of moving boxes, and asked                               if i still wanted
an emerald instead                of a diamond ring,

you were there, stirring   within him, a rot
deflated fig, a split       condom, a single blueberry.
beloved ally, once            you were born, i
removed placental film from                       earthenware

cheeks. it was my turn  to do the laboring,
the reassuring,          the reminding of what
good friends all three of us                           could be.
and ever since,            you have been

deliverance’s hand                    running ice
across my thyroid.              you, granter of wishes:
to be held                      by him one last time,
to forget                             for a few minutes,

the name                       of the man who
emptied him                             of his needs,
so that he could                               provide
one final kindness                         for me.