It Takes One to Kill One

The underbelly of sleep falls
on him just after
they make
love the old fashion way,
in a spare bedroom (to alter
the scene) on an alternate dingy
mattress, sinking
from the weight of white horse,
his arm still stretched and bound
with rubber cord, pointing
toward curtainless windows cracked
just above a proselytizing Mormon
wiping pigeon dong from his bike
helmet’s crevices with a kerchief
presented by his bride at a spring temple
wedding where he stood near the altar
with the same lust that dogged him
on group dates and at parties
in the outfields; at nineteen
he’d accepted his mission and arrived
at Vietnam prepared
to love the little children as Jesus
had; but he longed for flesh
and for home and had fallen
asleep in a field of jacinthe flowers
enough times to leave scars
along the tracks of his veins
festering.