Saturday, 9 April 2011


I am sorry about that day
back in fourth grade
when I almost called you a --

I had learned that word from the neighbors' kid.
At least that is the lie I told mother.

After all there was knowledge I could not dispute:
You tell the grown-ups, you become a snitch, and
A woman who marries a woman becomes a --

Tell me, you said, and from there
I imagine you threatening to choke me.
I remember running my finger up and down your bedpost.
I remember leaving.

I am sorry I have never been brave enough
to either be loud or be silent. That I have
spoken always with a smile
about "Oh! The pastries are great."

I am sorry I made you lock things up:
One, your cat
Two, the curse-words in your music
And three --

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