Tag: queer

The Muse

.Reading time 1 minute.

Reading her poetry, it stirred me up,
with eye of newt, wing of bat,
and things like that;
and so I stopped.

When I called, there was no motion;
there was no potion, and yet I fell.

Instead, she slipped a note,
and I read what she wrote:

“Reading your poetry, it stirs me up.
Afterward, I can never remember
what to do with my letters.
I connect vowel to consonant,
and then consonant to vowel,
but what comes out —
is no language I recognize.”

That’s just how it was;
it happened just like that.

She came out —
in a collared dress,
with thimbles on her thumbs,
and flushed cheeks
that seemed
to say:

“I know more of
hugging and kissing
than I will ever care
to admit,”

and taught me —
how to color in my lips,
with pencil crayons,
and keep inside
the lines;

how to be
a sometimes red,
and other times deep magenta
kind of girl;

how to come out,
and say:
“I FELL IN LOVE WITH A WOMAN.”

Enacting our poetry, it stirred us up,
with each forgetting that she
was not the other,
and so we stopped.

Emily

.Reading time 2 minutes.

This is not another one about
how I would like to kiss you,
how I forever and always,

Sincerely miss you; because
I is tired of acting, because
You is tired of passing, because

We are tired of writing poetry
that pleases the masses,
but leaves us feeling like asses,

For dishing out what is expected,
for speaking in a different voice
that sounds too akin to a whine

to belong to a prophet or pastor,
or someone in the business,
of delivering advice,
and receiving forgiveness.

This is not another confession.
This is a poem. About something.
A poem about politics or pedagogy

Or people, but not a person not
some arbitrary object of love
named You.

There may be pretty rhymes,
enjambs, and bits of tulle,
but do not be distracted.

There’s more to be desired
inside. Go ahead,
and unwrap this.

This poem does not care
if you muss up her hair,
and feels no shame

For setting it, or for wearing
a belt to accentuate her form.
That’s what [women] poets do.

We have the tools
for spinning letters
into fine language,

And are not afraid
to use them.
That’s what makes us crafty,

And crooked.
Beauty is essential to our strategy,
of getting you to pick up this thing

That, despite its gender, does not bend
to the feminine style, or other limits,
which do not exist.

There were no concessions made
for your taste, aside from that
brief mention of love,

Just because. Because

Emily is an ode, with brown hair
and brown eyes, and a mouth that
shouts sometimes;

To her lover, who also has hair
and eyes, and a mouth that gives
kisses to Emily.

Emily is neither sweet as pie,
nor humble as mashed potatoes,
but she is what I like,

And this is not about you.

Shilo

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Shilo belongs to a protected category of person,
the kind that must be managed so as to preserve
its natural condition, to appear unaffected by the
forces of nature, and the imprint of man’s work,
afforded at least five thousand acres for solitude.

At first brush, it seemed probable we’d be lovers.
She had me feeling all-American and free, shout-
singing: “Girl, this land was made for you n’ me”
and all other beasts of the Northern Nevada wild,
where the desert is high and dry and exposed, not
so low and wet and closed as where I come from.

“What brings you here, to these parts?” should be
easy — a basic exchange of creative nonfiction —
and I’ve heard that it gets better, but when you’re
queer and a woman probes for your preference of
parts, it’s imperative to leave the door open some,

So you say something like “Where I come from is
called the River Valley, green and fertile and deep,
with mountains on both sides, thrusting up toward
the sky. Your land has dimples and mounds in all
the right-familiar places; it reminds me of home.”

Shilo showed me the Playa in June, before Burners
came to boogie and burn, and we scribbled crayon-
portraits of each other, our busts against a backdrop
that could have passed for the surface of the moon.
She drew me in — in an extraterrestrial style — soft

-shelled egg of a head, floating on a band of gold
dust that was literally black (as her tip of charcoal)
but, for better symbolism, I remember in gold.

A Love Poem

.Reading time 1 minute.

Reading her poetry stirred me up:                                                                                                   eye of newt, wing of dove — whatever.                                                                                           It did not matter. I would have fallen                                                                                               in love all the same.                                                                                                                               Yet, modest, she remained.                                                                                                                 She said: “In your presence, I can never                                                                               remember what to do with my letters;                                                                                           I connect consonant to vowel and                                                                                           vowel to consonant, but what comes out                                                                                   is not a language that I can recognize.                                                                                       Emily colored in her lips                                                                                                       with pencil-crayons, but always kept                                                                                           inside the lines; she was a “sometimes red,                                                                         sometimes deep magenta” kind of girl.                                                                                   She wore collared dresses and thimbles                                                                                   on her thumbs, with flushed cheeks that                                                                            seemed to say: “I know more of hugging                                                                               and kissing than I care to admit.”                                                                                                In her embrace, I was enveloped with                                                                                        the strength of a nightcap (fit snugly to                                                                                  my crown) and could never remember                                                                                    what to do with my Body.

Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

.Reading time 2 minutes.

I.  On the verge of vertigo, the objects
in the mirror are closer than they appear
to be right-brained would be such
a wonderful thing that mothers always say
is: “Look both ways before crossing
the street” less traveled by will ebb
and flow, but who could miss such a
spectacular show-and-tell needs ears
and eyes are said to be our most expressive
feature films never feature heads
like mine.

II. Carry the weight of your world to my
doorstep. Let it lay upon my shoulders.
Shoulders. Shoulders were built to
shimmy and shake, shake, shake it,
girls were built to touch and taste and
feel better, Love, you’ve got so much left
to prove that force equals mass times
acceleration equals (Vf – Vi)
over time, my shoulders will buckle and break-
ing bread stands for broken bones in
the Bible teaches that we are built to
bear burdens.

III. In fourth grade, I played  as the knee-high
man who stood fallen, unable to get up-
stairs, everyone was laughing, but
I stood frozen, unable to get up
the courage and join them in
Holy Union, by the power invested
in me, and my legs, which buckled at
the “knee me in the groin, I deserve it!”
you spat on my glasses but they were not
dirty dishes made you angry not
mad means crazy – I learned that much in
fourth grade.

IV. Gym teacher says “reach out and touch your toes
—  if you can” throw on a movie and coat
of lipstick, well, you’ll have yourself
a date too mediocre to remember
might make a good little anniversary
one day after my thirteenth birthday,
gym teacher says “you can shoot for the moon,
but you’ll never score a three-point-
one-four was my favorite number in
the universe made me a “Mother,
why don’t you number the stars
anymore?”