by Kevin Hauger

my brother and I used to brandish sticks in mock manhood

I lingered in the woods to outman my father and away

from my father I met children of grownup children

who pointed out great big knockers like melony eye-nectar

 

but Garruk Wildspeaker never stooped there in my flesh-florid dreams

his papery edges cut my overeager fingers, freshly ripped

from glossy plastic packs like plaster-sticky silk like lace 

against oilglossed renditions of second generation daydreams

 

about knockers: from whence did they sidle up to Garruk

the incorruptible, the fantasy without fantasy memorabilia,

selling beautiful selling boywonder back to the womb?