ISSUE 3 - QUEER LOVE
Contemplating Coming Out to My Mother During Yom Kippur Services
And what sin is this, that won’t quiet
even on the day of repentance?
I was never taught how to whittle down
my own wanting.
Why should I pray to a god who wants less love?
A god who says You know what this world has too much of?
That god never sang me to sleep— my mother always did.
I would trust her with my life, but I do not trust her to know all of it.
In our house, there is nothing wrong with these words
when they are in someone else’s mouth.
Our mouths have been so empty for so long.
Please forgive me, these days of awe.
Secretly, I think this is the one thing about me that requires no forgiveness.
everyone i love is in the same room and laughing
if i could freeze this moment and put it in a tiny box i would
carry that box in the front pocket of my overalls forever.
my tiny overalls box would be made of beech wood and have a tiny
gold latch that clicks softly when it closes. i would open it only for
complete strangers on the subway who look like they might know the
answers to all of my questions. i wouldn’t make them answer any
though, just hold my hand. i want every stranger i meet to tell me their
favorite tree. mine is the one with the loud red flowers just past the
South Street gate. if you catch it in the right evening light, it looks like
it’s on fire.
everyone i love is on fire, but in a good way. i fall in love fifty-six
times a day and that’s a conservative estimate. i’m sorry, i just think
that everyone’s eyelashes are so beautiful. i have a no-good filter and
the last time i got tipsy i couldn’t stop saying “thank you” and “isn’t it
wonderful?” i think i am a product of circumstance. of who i am
surrounded by. everyone i love has fingertips like the edges of rose
petals and when they laugh all of the lightbulbs in all of the lamps in
the world turn on. believe me, I’ve seen it happen. a room full of light
can be a family if you make it one. we live in a house made of each
other. my best friend’s arms are the framework and my roommate’s
mop of morning hair is the roof, the only leak it lets in is the sunlight.
i wish I had pockets big enough to keep everyone I love in. pockets
that stretched to los angeles and taipei and glasgow and back. but in
the meantime i’ll keep everyone’s laughter in my tiny container.
open it for strangers on the subway. ask, “isn’t it wonderful?”