Real men: a cycle1. Real man with the golden chain
He becomes the braided chain
around his neck. His shirt intimates,
unbuttoned to a finger’s length above
the belly-button, a weight
of pendant gold. It slings, a stone
thrown at the heart and never missed
its mark. From his chest
of skimpy curling hairs a face looks out,
a Christ decapitated and flattened, flanked by
two light-brown cherubs that are n*****s.
The man with the golden chain
reeks of musk. He comes to me
for a manicure, a little talk.
As I kneel before his hands
I nearly catch myself bending over
to kiss his every finger, sleek
and waxy as a candle. “Motherwhore!”
he shouts at an absent nagging wife
whose bony cheeks had ruined
the natural glaze of his nails.
I promise to repaint them for his pleasure,
bu
