I love when Anthony finds his way

on my tongue. Strung from a devotional medal

inherited as a relic of an old faith,

his smooth silver back slides

between my lips like a quarter

in a slot

tied with a chain-link thread by a kid

in an arcade who tugs it

in and out 

of the game he plays, guaranteeing himself

a prize of purple coins

the color of a Lent chasuble across 

his slender neck. I’ve been baptized before,

but nothing compared to when

I found him

covered in bubbles head to cock 

to toe in our rust-lined bathtub,

a grown man reborn

in effervescent blue

suds–his giggles ringing 

across the porcelain-tiled walls 

as if it were St. Peter’s Basilica. 

When he found me

wandering faithlessly like Saul

in and out

of gay clubs and false gods 

with gaping

holes

in their self-righteous hearts,

I’d spent so long trying to kill

another guy who took up more space in my life 

than a giant 

ever since he’d killed me off in his mind.

But like an angel, my baby came 

for me in candy-red flames, sucking 

out the apostasy that stained my lips,

and for the first time in so long,

I remembered what it felt like to win.

I don’t think he knows

that I owe him everything.

Dear St. Anthony, please stay this time around,

something was lost, but I think it’s been found.

Matthew Buxton