for David

You slap me after the kiss, 		and two sounds
ring up around the steeple:
the rippled hush-clap of rock doves
taking sudden, startled flight—it is August, eightish—
                                                      and the clear ping of the basketball
                                                      which strikes blacktop and returns
                           to the root of your palm.
                                                                     Two surfaces,
that tender span along my jaw still thick
with baby fat, 			the length of flawless skin
                                                      from which your fingers bloom
the striking moment of connection
                                                      and the language of our reel, 
                           quiet bodies syncopated by the ball.
Two boys, water into rust.

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Nathan Fako (he/they) is a former high school teacher. He’s currently an MFA candidate in poetry at BGSU in Ohio. His work is published in West Trade Review and elsewhere.