O Mother, the music

after Terrance Hayes

by which I mean
the slap of skin and grunt

and after the grunt,
the slob who eats your

pecan pie and praises sister
while she spins in sequins,

spins and lights electric
as the daylight slips,

is not music, mother,
can't be. What is music,

is my eager hand along
a hunting knife

and the lightest touch
of blade that cuts

so cleanly, his beard,
and if not his beard

the hair that tufts
his saggy nipples

and makes him look
impish, small, so easily eaten,

a lion with no mane.
Is the warmth along

the bone-carved handle
and the nudge of tip

to throbbing throat
that surges as I squeeze

and shake and wrestle
the rage that moves

like wind in a box,
a cat that is caged,

the scream
of a stillborn prayer.

Luke Johnson’s poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Poetry Northwest, Frontier, Cortland Review and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall 2023 from Texas Review Press. You can connect on Twitter at @Lukesrant.