In congruence
birds’ cooing
sunset
harsh reds staccato
conversations stop suddenly.
Blue-tinted nimbus
crawls toward undefined horizon;
black creeps into peripheral
rousing my awe in
long-dead, sky-diamonds
from which I learn
solidarity, then solitude
in that order.
i’ve always loved a good stephen king story.
it was not surprising to find me
sitting comfortably in a matinee of one of his films
excited by the popcorn and overpriced candy
it was one of those afternoons
that i saw someone like myself on that screen for the first time:
two gay men
running from
bigger, stronger men
the real enemy
(not the killer clown)
no.
this was a more realistic fear
men killing men
flesh hurting flesh
i sat and watched
wide eyed
as they
attempted escape
words hurled at them
names.
no.
not names.
slurs.
yes slurs.
i’d never heard before
i guess
i shouldn’t have been as surprised as i was when my ears first heard
those same slurs
directed at
me
and i can’t decide which is scarier
the fiction king created
or the reality that inspired it
you always listen,
looking me in the eyes,
accepting my touch
always interested
in every sound–
word, grunt, cry
you come to me
as soon as you see me
i need not ask–
when i open the door
and step inside
you are right there
when i lie in bed,
you are at my side–
as near as you can be
but if i move, you move,
and you never complain
you get so excited when
i pour out your food–
same thing, day after day,
and you react as if it were
a feast
you lap your water throughout
the day, with no pretention–
you are thirsty, so you drink–
simple as that
you are so many things that,
though i may try,
i struggle to be–
content
grateful
sensitive
uncomplex
i have not forgotten
that you will bite
when cornered and pressured
but that is one of the reasons
Mother Nature gave you teeth
you never bite me
you lick my face, my hand
and show me a simple way
to be and, in your precious way,
you love me
Is place the secret to finding poetry
Frozen in me, needing a nudge?
Mother’s , Hindman, the mountains
All find latches that loosen lines
Wishing to be freed.
come over
The bee visits the flower
Like a lover entering by
A secret door
It finds its life there
But then it leaves
To return to the hive
So that it may live
My best friend lived in a pale
pink house, the color of fallen
peonies in birdbath water. She was an only
child. Her mom let her line
her eyes with raven’s eye
black & wear shimmery
gold eyeshadow from Kmart, She was a Linda
too & for an entire summer we fused, middle
school twins bantering about boys. We’d secretly
trail Dougie Esposito down Main Street as he
trudged to first shift at Jezebel’s Diner. We’d crawl under
Linda’s sleek sateen bedspread, which was splashed
with lilac clusters, white
roses & a ruffle
skirt at the bottom. Each had a hand
held Motorola transistor; we’d fall
asleep with them smushed under
our pillows as they crackled
with Motown, Sonny & Cher. We got
tipsy from cheap whiskey her dad
stashed in his sock drawer & after
that my mom never let me go back. Freshman
year came. No classes
together. She started going
with a greaser & I crushed on the long
haired brainiac who read Whitman
& the Tao Te Ching. Decades later, I have an expansive
palette of sparkle shadows, a fondness
for ruffles on pillows, Every once
in a while I see a pink
house & crave a sip
of Old Crow, just enough
to burn when swallowed. I remember
that summer before social rankings or high
school pecking orders, I rush home to crawl
under the covers & turn the volume up to 10.
Stravaig
