for one of Caravaggio’s boys

you stuff a flower in my hair
insist that my shirt pulls
baring down my shoulder
and take
my finger into your mouth
treacherous lips and flick tailed tongue
then bite;
I can see all my measurements
scaled and sharply
caught in lidless eyes
none who see
the exquisite surfaces
exquisitely framed
will know a thing of me
more familiar to the plucked cherries
the distorting glass
but the salted tip
taste must linger
on your palette as I leave
my face smudging your hands


Jack Bigglestone is a writer and reader from rural Shropshire. He has been published in We Were Always Here: A Queer Words Anthology, New Writing Scotland, A Queer Anthology of Healing, and elsewhere. He will be featured in the upcoming series of the Bedtime Stories at the End of the World podcast. Find him on twitter @JackBigglestone.

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