already flesh

By William Jackson Lofton

we know what is true,
Christ did not destroy the stone but rolled it.
turned over on a Sunday, i met a boy’s back
beginning an early morning beg: claw at me here.
his nose carries a hook a jeweler once knew.
maybe this is how bombs are made
to kneel—by beauty. believe it or not the men grew
gorgeous when i stopped looking for them to be perfect;
we can make love without the beds
of our fingers being stripped of extra skin; the manicurist
means well: your girlfriend is a lucky one. laughter
is the lamb’s bleat brought from my mouth.
the boy slides like breath out of my bed; he walks across the floor
and it cracks like water.

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This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by Shahadat Rahman.