He’s just a boy, you
tell yourself as you lean into
the sad corners of his mouth,
curling up, becoming small amongst
those creases, tracing that auburn cowlick
like a damp ring road, loneliness
in the bedroom between you both,
his jarring youth seemingly lost
under the weight of the room’s waves
Here’s another now,
crowd coalescing, he hides at the back,
demure, unaccustomed to attention,
unwilling to let his screaming light
penetrate this solemn vigil to all those dead boys,
the sad faces looking out over plastic candles,
hissing names into the wet heat,
boys like him—no more boys
like him—no more ∎
Words by Kaleem Hawa. Photograph by Daisy Lynch.
