My world of boys revolved around spit,
the palmed bet-glue, brawl beginner—
insult’s first cousin. The farthest loogie ruled
the club. So when he spit on my back once
and I heard the thrill of his larynx clearing
and releasing, like an engine left in disuse finally
revving, leaving behind a spotted trail of smoke,
I understood that sometimes when a man
fucks another man, it is something else entirely.
It is the last one on the court, the rotten egg;
it is the quickest mile, the highest jump,
the cheese stands alone; it is smear the queer,
the mouth’s final drawl: I am bigger than you,
I am faster than you, and I will always beat you.