Fiction & Poetry
That little baby born in spring,
Shall “he” identify as Queer?
Regardless, Polaris feels queer!
Why must others judge her appearance and grace
When true beauty is not confined to a face?
In a world obsessed with the outer shell,
She knows in her heart inner beauty dwells.
Who is this that works my hand?
Who is this that moves my pen?
Touch is a beetle creeping on this foreign thing
That wears my body like an evening.
They’ punch him
with the pejorative
‘sissy’
and blame him for his smooth skin
and pink lips
for all ‘their’
disoriented gazes.
Unbiased academic Pillars Stand rock hard and Straight-shoot to the sky. Pillars My teacher tells me all…
They lay eyes on him, they see a body out of the gym. A black, thick beard, in a need…
Do you know what it feels like to be seen? I also don’t know what it feels like to be properly heard, but that’s a question for another time.
We are two boys in our early twenties
who can read touch like that, who have broken into
a 200-year-old mansion, without permission,
to see from above where people like them go
after 377 has been read down only for those
who can stay behind closed doors — in the custody
of cheap hotels, or houses that welcome nights
with the sound of latches closing.