The Gods Made with Antlers.

Love bites- they’re ravenous,
is that what you said?
when my legs and my ears
were tangled up on your bed
Brotherly arguments
dissolved with a whine
and you begging for magic,
for me to slow down the time
But it’s unbecoming Thor, really,
to hear you slave after minutes
or hours, or weeks,
when you can shut your lips
and just lean in it.
Our bodies, which grew
as if vines from the same pot
both sinewy and raw,
both aching deep with hot.
I like an Amazonian, lean and
slick in my movements
You like an oaf chiseled down
to marble;
you’ve made a few improvements.
Though the shorn hair,
I have to say
is also unbecoming of you Thor,
a king needs a sun-circlet
like a lion needs his roar.
And you are unbecoming
as I roll you in my palms
golden wire, musculature fabric
bleeding saliva-rich herb balms
I’ve got all the breath in the world
and all the magic in my breath
to distract you from the guilt you feel
when you think about my death.
But how do Gods die, brother?
In gold light, with a rosy flare?
Is that what happened when they suddenly
cut off all your hair?
Or did the dead come
pounding down
and did you leave them
there to rot?
Didn’t take its body home with you?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Because Thor,
as far as your sentiments go,
your body has always, always
been stronger.
And I don’t know where we’re going to be
when you can’t take the fucking much longer.