Alone on the Rig

More Random Acts of Poetry

Steel legs pierce the Gulf,
salt wind hisses through the braces,
and the rig thrums like something alive.
The men move heavy
with sunburned arms, open shirts,
oil-blackened knuckles, cracking jokes
loud enough to keep the sky from closing in.

I laugh when I’m supposed to.
I join the noise.
But my voice feels borrowed,
like my body, like the way I stand
too stiff in the locker room,
eyes trained too long on another man’s back.

I watch them peel their shirts,
sling towels over hips,
sweat tracing their spines like a lover’s hand.
One bends to grab a wrench
and the curve of his ass fills my throat
with something that tastes like danger.
I turn away, hard and burning.

At night,
the bunkhouse breathes like a beast.
They talk about pussy like it’s gospel.
Wives, girls, curves,
what they’d do if they weren’t so far from land.
Photos crinkled at the edges.
One man strokes himself in the bunk below.
I pretend not to hear.
I ache so bad I could cry.

I dream of heat —
Of a calloused palm wrapping my cock.
Of a voice calling to me, low and slow.
Of being seen,
not for the laugh,
but for the part I keep hidden under denim and duty.

So I bury it
under diesel stink and sea rot,
under discipline,
under the fear of what might rise
if I let myself want.

The rig sways.
The ocean listens.
The steel holds me tighter than any man has.
And I lie still,
naked under my sheets,
fingers curled in restraint,
while the waves carry off every moan
I’m not allowed to utter.