Attack on Castro

The balance of our lives,
radiant as plutonium on the half shell,
precious as affordable cold fusion
(its promise like dreams),
that was not threatened
when the knives appeared
from behind power poles,
when the pipes cracked down on our ribs,
that is beyond the crutches of pain,
that retains its buoyancy.

Fear like a Brut cologne
mixed in the sweat of straight boys,
T-shirt sleeves rolled over their shoulders,
their dicks throbbing with unreasoned joy,
their lungs bursting
with the vowels in faggot,
the consonants in fuck,
until at the upstroke of passion,
flailing, they come,
relax into blood,
blood on their balls, in their hearts;
they run along flumed streets,
away from lights, panting,
gasping amidst laughter,
slapping their buddies’ backs
and shouting,
attracting windows dropping shut,
a badge on their trail.

They slash our skin,
break our bones, hurl names;
but they cannot touch our love:
We only ask, fresh-faced, to love.

About the Author

Mr. Ambler’s writing has been published in Christopher Street, The James White Review, City Lights Review Number 2, Nixes Mate Review, and Visitant, among others. Most recently, he was featured in the anthology VOICES OF THE GRIEVING HEART. He has a BA in English, specializing in creative writing of poetry, from Stanford University.