While at the Grocery
Summer walked right in–
In full bloom pink bermudas
His cart had no squeak
For the second time,
a snake fell from the ceiling of my art studio
just a few feet from my head.
I was standing on a chair
driving nails to hang new twinkle lights and
stumbled back, nearly falling,
messy bun catching on a strand of lights
as I righted myself and realized
it was just a little ring neck
probably aggravated
at my disturbance hammering and
looking for a quiet place to hide.
I took a few deep breaths and
returned to my task
a little more aware of every small sound.
I always bring a hand tied bouquet-
this time flowers from my garden-
hydrangia, bergamot, rose-
she never liked strong smells-
baptista, fern fronds-
She couldn’t breathe
with lilies-
couldn’t
breathe-
We are gathered here today
to witness
all the ways
a yes is a yes
how a three letter word
heralds a rainbow
of meaning
out of the clear blue
light of day
let us be an audience
this month
of Poetry, Pride and Pipers
and for all time
to the bravery of love
to the meaning in choosing
love
Louisville Pride
was always
the day before
Father’s Day.
It made for
a late night,
driving over an hour home,
scouring Walmart
for cards and gifts,
taking off the nail polish
so I could wake up early
and go to church
and pretend to be
the good straight cis child.
It was jarring,
having to run
back into the closet
so quickly,
the two different sides
of my world
so close together
and so far apart.
And what would
it have been like
if they
could have melded together,
if I could have asked
for the type
of fatherly advice
I desperately wanted?
“Dad, what do I do
with the rage I feel
for those who
stand outside the gate
preaching hatred?”
“Dad, how do I
talk to a cute boy?”
“Dad, how do I
feel good about myself
when no one
at the gay bar
wants to talk to me?”
Louisville Pride
was always
the Saturday
before Father’s Day.
And Sunday
I always felt
fatherless.
The first time
I let you go
The second time
You left
The first time
I waited
The second time
I built a wall
The first time
Broke my heart
The second time
Broke my spirit
The first time
I left the door open
The second time
You slammed it shut
There won’t be a third time
my legs spread open,
my thighs becoming concave
as they reach where my body dips inward
tracing my fingers along the spot
where he pressed, penetrated
with his grim hands
i never imagined i’d cry
while fucking myself, yet times change,
but this once, i don’t even think of his sour lips
The floorboards
Sing beneath you
As you walk to me
It blurs
The line between
Beauty and
Threat
From one only
I can threaten myself
And from the other
The music warns me
But does not
Keep me
The bell is old and covered with rust.
Patches of moss can be seen on its surface.
A frayed rope hangs down from one of its sides.
The pieces of string are pulled by the wind as the storm blows by.
The storm is one of those things that so much must withstand.
The bell is like the bending trees, and it’s like the neglected garbage cans,
Which were left outside. Now they blow down the street.
As you watch the bell, you tend to think,
About how each day it has another crack. Each day it has another ding,
But each morning we can see the bell is an enduring thing,
For promptly at eight, the worn bell rings.
Even though the old bell has lost its shine,
Its ring is still clear and strong every time.
Sometimes I find myself
thumbing through faded photographs:
women in dresses that reach to their laced-up shoes,
men wearing grey fedoras and leaning on canes:
my ancestors, whether I knew them or not.
I wonder about their stories,
about what they learned of wisdom
and where lie the connections between our lives,
theirs and mine—
and how it is that I know so little of them
and how it is they feel so elusive
and how it is they feel so near.
