M(ichael) — a Lipogram Contemplating ‘M

Sarah Ng 

You are the sound I spit out

as I lust over vanilla dip donuts —

the “get ready. set. go.” of the boy

I’ll never forget — the stifled

songs I sing behind closed doors,

and the frozen ecstasy of silence

that we create because your parents

are in the kitchen cooking cabbage rolls.

You are the light filtering through

blue curtains — the other word

for dawn as dawn pries back our lids.

You are the self-sufficient pleasure

that calls us back full circle — you divide

this into one. I could live in the alliteration

of your sound; it ties us together, pulling

our bodies up towards the ceiling

as though there were strings tied to our

navels — toes curling — hands pressing

against  hardwood. I translate you into

everything he is.

He begins where you end.