My friend’s friends, his new line brothers,
are huddled in the kitchen, taking turns
burning an ancient alphabet into their biceps,
along their lower legs, into their chests.
They howl, licking their chops, relaying
a single bottle and a branding iron
like twin batons. Decoupled from livestock,
or the institution of slavery, it’s explained
to me as the ultimate act of devotion,
of fidelity, the best illustration of what
it looks like to love. But I want to tell you,
there are certain smells we are not
equipped for, cannot unknow,
like how the tongue can’t lap back a word,
and a bell cannot be unrung. First, the hair glows like
a live wire, then the skin whines like a feral cat
caught in a trap. Oh, the brothers howl until
snot balloons in the nose. One of them notices
me nursing my beer and whispers: I don’t think
blood should be here. Then the sun becomes
an aerosol of sweat and creosote, a fragrance
of old rose and spoiled milk, of feces and mud.