Sex in Portugal

by Bill Hollands

Not sex exactly but in that

ballpark. Not a ballpark! A chapel

of bones. Skulls. Femurs.

Tibias. I’m twenty-one. The –

priest? friar? tour guide? –

before I know it he’s got

his arm around my

shoulder and my little

hard-on presses up against his

hip, camouflaged somewhat

by his voluminous robe. He’s pretty

old, though I guess I wouldn’t

think so now. Tourists in their sad

denim shorts (just like mine!)

fondle the bones. The…friar

(I’m just going to call him

the friar) points out various

interesting architectural elements

in Portuguese as he pulls

me close and periodically

adjusts our contact. I nod. I don’t

understand Portuguese but

it’s a beautiful language. Lots

of zh sounds. I need to go back

to that chapel. It was cool but

I don’t remember much about it.

Story of my life.

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Bill Hollands is a teacher and poet in Seattle, where he lives with his husband and their son. His poems have appeared in Rattle, DIAGRAM, The American Journal of Poetry, The Account, Wildness, and elsewhere. He was recently named a finalist for New Ohio Review's NORward Prize, North American Review’s James Hearst Poetry Prize, Sycamore Review’s Wabash Prize in Poetry, and Smartish Pace’s Erskine J. Poetry Prize. Find him at https://billhollandspoetry.com/ and on Twitter @bill_hollands.