This morning I have fog for breakfast.
A whole bank of it. Before sunrise.
Plucked from the corners of a mountain.
& already I’m thinking about the end.
Of the day. The sunbed unmade.
The lull & the sex of a boy who reminds me.
Of someone I’d rather keep. Unnamed.
The headache after the orgasm. I’ve been.
Thinking too much about my brother.
Lately. Just how much. Of the day.
He spent asleep before his end.
As if the end. Devoured like voracious fog.
The hours. He had left.
On earth. I want. A different ending.
Or rather. A thing that doesn’t end.
In heartache. Or headache.
The sea & the sun. The quiet nestle of clouds.
Falling. Down the pits. Of my body.
ALDO AMPARÁN is a queer poet from the sister cities of El Paso, TX, & Ciudad Juárez, CHIH. He is the author of Brother Sleep (forthcoming 2022), winner of the 2020 Alice James Award. A CantoMundo Fellow, his work appears in, or is forthcoming from AGNI, The Journal, Kenyon Review Online, Ploughshares, & elsewhere. Find him at: http://aldoamparan.com