Men have a tender sense that sees
with their bodies, the only
light. Like the one who had the face
of Jesus tattooed on his back.
And when he’s just come home
with someone, put a record
on to dance—blues, Billie Holiday—
and burned the lights all off—
the woman’s voice is his, swimming
in the dark skin, the face
of Jesus, moving like water through
his muscles and shirt.
The recorded piano sound lights
the sky where a moon
abandons fireflies, and the man joins
their world of blindness
that sees with wings and the dark
of hands. As in
the photograph that sat on his
dresser for twenty years,
his only now seeing the loving
look from a dead man there—
his father—standing by some bare
trees, holding his last son.