His condom rips.

No and Stop molt

            in my throat

                        my Adam’s apple

            a wing

                        beating,           

            clipped.

                                    Fog billows inside my body

                                    like the San Joaquin Valley –

it disseminates

            through orchards, seeps

                        through limbs,

                                    crystallizes boughs

            into chandeliers

            bearing frostbitten fruit –

it turns me apparition

            like Gabriel to Mary:

                        The holy ghost shall come upon thee –

                                                God’s anointed

                                                            secretion, phantom

                                                                        assailant, his sacred

                                    alibi of bruises

            around my neck.

                        Who will believe me?

                                    He spits

            my name: S ---

                        from Hebrew S ---,

                                    from Latin S ---:

wreath,

            laurel,

                        crown

of thorns upon the bastard’s head.