my mother pours baby powder down my back
and i, pleased, sticky my face in a pile of it,
pretend i’m an amateur mime, or tony montana,
a japanese noh actor.
i can’t be young again,
only in my mother’s mind.
just as you are “puer aeternus”
in my over-slogged memories,
constantly in bloom
until i hide, having had no say in the matter,
snatch the sun down, take it with me.
when i talk about blowjobs in front of my mother,
she says, “oh, why don’t you just grow up?”
and i say, “not until you die – which you will.
only then will i meet up with you
holding my sun on a string
like a balloon you bought me but later found out
About the author:
Stephen Okawa is a garbageman from Dorchester, MA. His worked has appeared in The Main Street Rag, WordEater, Breadcrumb Scabs, Boston Poetry Magazine, and others.