Ode To Matthew Shepard

Once I hit
someone I loved.

It wasn’t
very hard. But

I hit him. I
hit him

in the way you
hit someone

you need
to stop

loving you. I
can still

remember the way
the body looked

when I hit it.
It was ruined

with my knowing
you could hurt

a body and it
still needs

something
more than

your pain.
Narrative is

as corrupt
as the thoughts


of the men who
murdered

you, Matthew.
Explanation never

satisfies. It
always wants

something
like redemption.