He returns uncalled for through
chalky cicada night like good luck
rises over a thatch of black hair
shirtless, in cut-offs, well-oiled
muscles browned by an Asian sun
against a stone bowl of earth. We
called him “Animal.” He is dirty,
fingernails stained by something
that has been digging around the
edges. Smelling like a gas station.
Leaning against the porch’s white,
peeling pillar scratching himself
beyond the screen door that shreds
your breath he asks will you come
out to the kilns of unzipped skin
within a grainy, paper-lantern Kabuki.
You shed your flesh when he leans
on you until the pillar falls and the
whole house comes down on your
head. It is too late for you to go out,
Grandmother says, as if knowing his
lean body won’t come inside to see
your white skin peel, knowing that it
might be a trap.
He just wants to talk to the Skinny
Buddha, he says, comparing you to
an ivory chess piece he has seen. He
pees on the dead grass, trampling
it down in crop circles, throwing rocks
at the moon, until she turns on the
TV. Later, when your friends from
the park come calling through the
windows and laughing, you’re afraid
to ask about him since you don’t
want anyone getting the wrong ideas.
You ask anyways.
You are losing all sense of direction.
Grandmother blames it on the heat.