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.