Your name shines twilight blue when I get home.
When I can’t sleep, you’re posting on the web.
Against the slivered moonlight, empty dread
of clicking through, I fall for your dark poem.
For you, my silhouette; I’m numbered friend
who’s quiet, fretful, busy with a book.
You’re Adam’s apple, bored and sexy look
of Byron: Eden’s door opens again.
In Sonnet X, you joke pain’s not a threat
for boys like you, who give more than they get.
I’ve been with Roth, Kundera; novel bliss
may bite and sting, forgetting how to kiss—
no tingling rhyme. I’d offer mine, I’d sin
with you, Wunderkind. Invite me to begin.
Deborah Diemont is a freelance writer living in Syracuse, New York, and spends summers in Chiapas, Mexico, where she writes for a bilingual magazine of arts and culture and translates exhibition materials for the Museum of Mayan Medicine. Her poems previously appeared in CAIRN, Lucid Rhythms, The Texas Review, and elsewhere.