“The Spring Where Two Buffaloes Were Shot Stone Dead With One Shot”

 

When preaching is practiced, rooms grow dark—
I watch him stride into a strut with
every star out. We camp in the expanse of prairie.

 

When the pastor holds only a slingshot and a rock,
it is exposure—it means the world to feel
visible, illuminated in the open air, risk and all.

 

He and I and the pastor, a deal with God
to keep us alive. But the Lord makes no time
for those who already believe themselves dead.

 

So we roll another smoke. The pastor screams,
I am the Hunter, use me! Use me!
God thunders down, and boy, do we let out a yell.

 

He and I become two buffaloes in a wellspring
of water in an oasis—dead with a single stone.
It's a shame to never send letters home.

 

Life, obviously, wouldn’t be possible without ghosts.
If God saves us, maybe we'll send postcards from heaven.

What the forsaken, lovelorn hearts want

is to be bigger than the body: buffaloes in dry heat,
so strong, yet just

 

two men howling in pain.

 

Yes, I believe in a miracle called survival,
in promises of living forever up high. But I know
I’ll never make it to heaven. From the start,

 

I was born to punch pick-up trucks on the prairie
and cry out: Last call 'til the Lord reckons us home.




trespassers, William


Some flowers sing when picked solely to be hung dry.

When we die, there’s no such thing as trespassers, William.


Pickle all our ties to each other for freedom.

I sold all our lies to trespassers, William.


Inflame a neighbor’s lawn because it’s private,

then may we yawn in the beds of trespassers, William.


You’re the best, chef, so you’ll make my favorite dish!

I can’t cook, I only fish and catch you our trespassers, William.


Memories of sugar cane standing on our heads.

There is shame bleeding atop the trespassers, William.


We foster hopeless romantics to teach lessons on love.

I hold your hand, you reach for trespassers, William.


For $1,000, we can own everything we want without crime. A boy
named Ben can steal your time and forgive you your trespassers, William. 




smoke signals


In this dream,

we were driving a car, a no-one car,

just plain.

We drove alongside a cliff, where children were

climbing the escarpment—futile, wind-battered

knees shattering against rocks.

There was no stopping that car.

Instead, your hand

slipped

to my thigh; smoke signals to my brain, judgment


stoned. I was theme parks and carnivals to him,

he touched me; he was thunderbolt sexy,

kinetic, I needed him to pulse against me, pounding

to climb the edge. I wanted to feel him on my legs, in my whole body.

Ben Fluet (he/him) is a queer poet, journalist, and filmmaker from Richmond, Virginia, currently living in New Orleans. In 2022, he hand-bound and self-published his debut chapbook, "How We Forgot to Sing," and is currently a reader for Bayou Magazine. In 2020, Ben directed "Meet Me By The Magnolia Tree," a documentary exploring the history of gay men's lives in Richmond, VA, aired on PBS and featured on Virginia Public Media. He received his BS in Broadcast Journalism from Virginia Commonwealth University and is now pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the University of New Orleans.

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