I have another version of this poem entitled "Firsts" on this blog, but after consultation with fellow writers and some re-reading, I've realized this may be the better draft. I don't know, you be the judge.
You think because he calls me up from abysmal wells and runs wayward
that he’ll always be lost in songs he can’t escape living in or places
he can’t pronounce, that he is master over me. But you don’t see the way
he drops his arms, knocks back his hardness when he is faced with me.
He wishes he could wring his skin of me the way he does beautiful
women too faint to be heard over his wolfing nights. I give to him the
pieces of me I can bear to lose, the openings and the parts already dead.
He imagines me a hot water unguent bottled beside him. He seeks me
out like the money he’s been missing, knows I’m like grass, always a
few staggered steps away. I reach into his wood hollow and pull out prayer,
grate it into his bicep with my razorblade of tongue. He gives me powers
to hear his time crackling and sparking pretty like ember. Poor thing,
watches a room arouse itself with smoke wanting to savor, his mouth
open and drying, its wetness wishing to God it were steam.