David Hopson
poem
The Fountains of Youth
The guy with dreads, in nothing but boots,
stands shoulders above the passing men.
A few dart for him, the way fish will for bread.
One laps his armpit.
Another (slight underbite, strong Roman
nose), pulls his face down, hungry
for a pearl of spit, then drops to his knees,
the word please tattooed
across the small of his back. Like something
out of Caravaggio or another master
of shadow and light, we swim
from a black sea into the shallow red pools
of the exit lights, to feed,
to be fed. It’s not exactly love I see
but it’s not not love, these strangers
ministering to strangers’ needs.
This time of year, the bodegas
burst with lilacs. I carry to bed
the scent of salt and brine
and a tenderness that tightens
the skin as it dries.
Poetry (April 2025)
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poem
In August, in the City
We land in the aisles of British fiction
to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers
play the spines of the Brontës.
I’ve seen you around.
At the farmers market with a lick
of bicycle grease on your calf,
your canvas bag flush
with beets. Or bundled, blocks ahead, urging
your little dog through the snow.
Today, you’ve scissored your clothes
to the season: cutoff jeans
and a sleeveless concert tee
slit to the hem. The compass
inked on your side points north.
Nipples hard-bitten by the cold.
You shelve Villette and music pours
from the dark curls under your arm.
Odd little bits of information,
writes Lawrence, stir unfathomable passion.
In three lifetimes, I could never read enough.
Poetry (April 2025)
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