The Gospel of Jesus's Husband 
-After Morgan Parker

I'll tell you what I remember
because there is no written
language that wants to hold onto
my name. I'll tell you about how

when pressing your hands together
the space in between is a kind
of tomb, where a man can exist
if you loved him more than 

anyone else. This is about his
skin, the color and softness
of clay. I left my hand prints
in him on cool nights, when alone

we pressed into each other.
The angular shape of men touching
men, no where to put shoulders,
holding him afterwards and him

telling me that he was scared.
That he could imagine a life 
for us. That he wanted to save
us both for a different time

where we might have lived
peacefully by some river. 
Laying naked together, he told me to
touch his hands, callous from

his father's work with wood. 
Pointed to the center and said
that was where there would be
a hole. I touched, could feel

his skin give way into nothing.
Empty, my finger through his hand.
I did not cry then, but asked
if anyone would ever know of us.

I opened my palm for him
to touch as he said, 
"No, no, I don't think
they can." His light touch,

finger at the center of my hand
where the skin didn't part.
I wanted it to, wanted holes
in my hands. Wanted to share 

whatever horror would 
take his beautiful skin apart.
But I lived and told no one.
On nights like this I 

lay down in the empty tomb
and imagine us here. Bodies
against stone, bodies molding
together in the orange dusk.