after Chappell Roan

The cold knows me in ways you never will.

Darkness clamps her hand over the city’s mouth.

Still, light. Music rises like smoke. And God is anything

but subtle — this joint, our first kiss. Now my heart’s

a helium balloon — pink, no strings attached.

Sailing high among the lanterns — paper clouds

in a makeshift sky in a lesbian bar where

I keep my sunglasses on so you can’t see me

cry. If we’re already in Hell, then that explains

middle school, which isn’t when I knew. But the body,

like God, offers signs. Neon and to the point —

Open. Welcome. Thank You. When I called desire

by name, the fog lifted from our past. (Seventh grade

art class. I wanted to tell you.) Twelve years

later, your palms are electric against my cheeks.

Eyes, the color of parched earth — so here is my grief.

Winter, like any crush, renders my layers useless.

I forgive myself. In New York, there are no chance

encounters. There are choices other than fear.

————————————–

Micaela Camacho-Tenreiro called us from Wharton, NJ.

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