Weight

The Atlantic was swallowing
the sun in its mouth—spitting the moon
from its lips like a half-eaten lung.
A man once showed me how we
consummate our love in our throats.

Breath far better echoes to match
than heartbeats—spastic heaving laced
with salt better than a steady rhythm.

The first time I kissed a boy,
he showed me how nothing
is equal. One body always pulled
to another. The wanting does not un-
hinge itself from an unbalanced scale.

He tasted like Seattle. Light-posts
bounced their tongues off the asphalt
of Boston. Even the brightest nights
have ghosts shadowing what they carry.

Peter Mason