P

this week someone I know died in July and we only found out this week in January. 

the week before I thought I should call her it’s been too long but I was 6 months too late

1997

When my greatest pleasure was

playing my extra long pencil as a flute

along to the Voyage of the Mimi theme song

and the year I struggled 

to internalize denial 

as confirmation of guilt 

to respond to you so totally like him

with an eww no

could only ever be understood 

as confessing my love/lust

which was somehow always disgusting —

(I tried to work out  part of the equation was deplorable—

me?

the boy?

the lust itself?)

eternally skeptical of the safety granted 

in coaxing sarcasm 

to make itself at home in my throat 

 yeah, he’s like so hot

believing my confirmation as sufficient denial

the conversation moved on

the target on someone else’s back

those wild west days —

of trying to will meaning from chaos

striving only for survival —

are largely behind me (right?)

yet I still find myself disoriented 

at denying longings to myself 

at naming them

at the wrongness of wanting

seeing faces frozen at the lunch table

forever repulsed

Men 2 Men

 

The secret world, where hormones are capital,
where ideas are hollowed out so that
the tirade in the lounge can find a vacuum,
breathless incantations in the boudoir,
lists upon lists to do,
processes instead of exposition,
tomorrow is and tomorrow will,
what comes next following 
what came last,
every corner, every towel drying
in the airing cabinet -
the damp from which is wrung -
a contested space,
when did they stop loving you,
when did you stop loving them?