Content note: reclaimed use of the F-slur.

I saw him— a mirage under neon lights:
Strobing hues like stained glass,
illuminating something holy, divine.

He was Roman, I thought,
or at least his nose was,
crooked and beaky,
handcrafted by renaissance sculptors—
drunk on wine and hedonism—
to draw the eye.
Or at least, drawing mine.

I had the desire to see him,
and see him and see him,
in charcoal, dark and delicate,
blanketed between sheets
of
cartridge paper, cotton,
and keep him there.

I saw him, a spirit in the early hours,
wading in and out of my consciousness,
hips making ripples, then waves.
I saw his lips in bruised peaches, 
iris of hail nestled on grass.

Him and him and him and Him.

If he felt the heat of my spotlight eyes,
he didn’t show it.
Till that night outside Club Apollo
when we each took a breath.
Back against graffiti’d brick
and haloed by headlights
He turned to me, neck bared:
A Saint Sebastian
of the back alley.

“Fag?” an offer, an affirmation,
accented, and chemically charged,
pulling out another cigarette
with piano fingers
to light a spark between us.

I didn’t smoke
but I brought the tip
to my parted lips and
thought “When in Rome.”

About the author

Jack Anthony is an emerging poet and writer from Meanjin/Brisbane, Australia. His work has been published in anthologies and literary magazines such as Heartfelt, Ink & Inclusion, Beneath the Mask and The Arboretum. When not writing they can be found with their nose in a book, haunting thrift stores and bothering their cat, Jesper.

Note: this poem was previously published in Discretionary Love.
Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash.