Friday, 15 April 2011

15/30

It is not silence,
the rhythmic tugging
at microphone wires.

My heartstrings
are made of the same stuff as yours,
they are only a little bit easier to
put in a cage.

Look at these stamps,
itchy colonies on my skin,
how they've grown in
rancor and sting
since that first stubby
toddler's finger, pointing.

But "sissy" is a word
that bounces off
lightly, harmlessly
from mouths too small
for bubblegum.

Bounces like
sticks and stones can
break my bones,
like the pigtails of
jump-roping girls,

Like dodgeballs.
Stop it.
Faggot.
Please.
Faggot.
No.

Yes! is the word, they told us.
Yes is the word that would save us all
so I opened my chest like a fridge,
opened my chest for the neighbors' dog
for the history books
for my mother.

Look at these stamps.
Not even nature will look at me now.

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