This poem approaches millennial lesbianism through the generic. By utilizing capitalist imagery and references to American Popular culture, I seek to capture the experiences of the young, urban women growing up gay in a culture that simultaneously rejects them from without, while the queer community rejects them from within.
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We are a construct, deconstructing,
A runaway train, the snapped cable on a streetcar
The lights go out on Broadway and in the dark,
With primitive longing lapping up his angel-headed
Desire, he cries out in the shadows
And Stella looks out her window with blank eyes
And with adequate timing, whispers
“Did someone say my name?”
We are two boys in white paint on Halloween—
We crush candy in our gums and let the sugar, sweet
Drip like sweat down our dimpled chins
We dance with veritable joy in a toast to hollow gravity
We are the wild youth, blueberry kissed by candy corn smiles
In whiskers, we cry out in wet streets
“No more tricks, no more tricks, no more treats.”
We make dolls with paper faces and red lips
We give them our names, and dress them in our clothes
We dive into the deep sea, no line, anchor heavy
We sink in tandem to the bottom so that our lungs can
Burst, in green pears, and return as pulp
Shaking like a spring leaf, you spread like butter on toast
The juice rolls down your thighs in rivers
And makes creeks of red morning blooms
So then, is this love?
The question sits quiet on our plates
And we cut our steak, wince as our knives
Clink together
Is this love?
It floats in the air of four am when you are asleep
And I am awake, eyes trained firmly on the grooves
In the ceiling. The fan clunks in circular motion
Like wheels on bicycle
I remember summer
A blue moon twinkles over East Village
And in this twilight room with a deafening roar
The train jumps track and splits my head in two
My ears going each one direction
Is this love?
I’d give you everything for nothing but the chance
To feel less alone
And still, angry, drooling on your hand
My eyes blinking in rapid dissolution
What is love?
Pervasive, the silence bubbles forth like a popped can
A black cat in the window.
How small and simple we must seem.
