PHAEDRA HANGS OUT THE WASHING
By Kit Brookman
the beauty of boys
in a morning-frost, white
skin running between white
sheets snagged by wooden
pegs
the kind that have no wire,
are solid, inescapable. Gods.
he,
still,
my stepson,
watching as the world cracks open,
stubble yet to scar his lip,
but lines of man-muscle on the boy-bones.