On Cortelyou summer children shriek and hurl
ice left after the market stands close up.
Cold crystals scatter across the steaming sidewalk.
A dirty white cat ducks under a dirty white van,
and I hug the edges of the low brick buildings.
In their departure one older boy wraps 
his arms around the waist of another, head
tucked down into his slim shoulder.
 
The rent&rsquo;s too high to live where I grew up.
I&rsquo;m here, two subway stops removed, unsure
how I&rsquo;m any different than that young 
white woman who yelled down at me
and my new bisexual friends being teenagers
too loudly below her Park Slope window.
We screamed Fuck off Go back to Connecticut!
the worst insult we could conceive of, and ran off
into the park to drink Mike&rsquo;s Hard and worry
some more about touching each other.
 
At least I do no yelling now. I am 
a quiet, unknown neighbor to these boys: 
a slow and unremarked-on violence in itself. 
I&rsquo;m stuck standing at the curb, searching 
for an alternative to being useless. 
Their bodies press and arc into a deep lean,
dark slender trees bowing in a big wind
as their motorcycle curves the corner.

Embrace

April means it&rsquo;s almost time 
to leave. It&rsquo;s the feeling that
this afternoon like everything 
else is escaping me. 

A yellow beetle inches upside 
down along the edge of my desk. 
With each step forward the bright 
wing-covers shift from side to side.
 
I give the desk to it. Get outside
and head down the reedy path
towards the fire pit and the stiff line 
of alders beyond, empty except 
for their small grey cones holding fast.
 
Earlier I&rsquo;d gone the same way
with Aracelis who told me about 
the fig tree she&rsquo;s leaving, behind 
her apartment in Crown Heights.
Like I&rsquo;m leaving this place, its long
skies, its llamas and rusty sumac.

How to account for each small thing
we love and which can&rsquo;t come with us: 
the brown and purple figs, thick 
and good. This growing sense
that loss isn&rsquo;t some inlet we rush 
into, then out of, back to normal;
that it&rsquo;s been there with us, and all we get
to keep is the desire for something
just as good. What if the next
house has creeping bougainvillea, 
an avocado tree.

Figs

I wanted to touch everything in Cherry
Grove: someone&rsquo;s elaborate ass, tattooed
with an expressionless pair of eyes &mdash;
a small elegant woman sleeping with
a pit bull in her arms on the afternoon sand.
 
We all walked purposeful up to the waves,
my friends, our chests unbound
under the warm grey sky. I thought of F
who slept in their binder our first nights
together. The terrible crush of rib and lung &mdash;
the other clutch of fear at its removal.
These we place each time on our isolated scales
of desire and inhibition, ensuring we&rsquo;ll stay
just as we are. But not today.
 
(Later Reina tells me about this same beach,
her sense that only a certain kind of girl
was wanted. I&rsquo;d felt so easy in myself
I didn&rsquo;t think of who was missing).

Fire Island

Ted says plucking
the feathers from a chicken
feels like pulling up blades
of thick grass.
 
Sometimes I depart
from myself, other times
I don&rsquo;t. What I want
is you to tell the difference.
 
Just like that we were making out, 
hardly inside the door, and when 
you asked I said there was
nowhere you couldn&rsquo;t touch.
 
You said really, disbelieving,
then we both felt sort of sad. 
Just like that, the old, tall grass
pushed up between us.
 
I imagine Ted running
his fingers through the warm,
soft feathers of the living
chickens, remembering.

Grass

On my way to the video store sheets of ice
cover puddles like wrinkles patterning
the corner of an eye. I&rsquo;m on my way 
to return Paul Newman. He&rsquo;s kissing
parking meters like they were girls
he&rsquo;d been circling all night, then deftly 
beheading them.

More ice on the bus shelter glass.
One panel reads, &ldquo;your gay&rdquo; scratched
through the thin crystals. Mine?
 
Still it&rsquo;s not hard to see the two of us instead:
only days ago. My shoulder encountering
yours on the sofa during Cool Hand Luke. 
Or early the next afternoon before I left, 
as you pressed me up against the door 
and said it&rsquo;d be a shame for me to lose 
my breasts. I stepped back 
outside into the first inch of snow 
that had gathered since we came in.
 
Already the snow was melting.
A clump fell from the branches
of the tall bush by the front door.
They shook up then down
a trampoline evening itself out
after its jumper has jumped off.

It was a short walk home. 
It would have taken more
blocks to figure out 
that I&rsquo;d escaped without losing 
my head. My glasses fogged 
when I got in from outside.

Husks

cloud 
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; cloud
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; cloud
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; cloud

passion flower, or some kind
of flower, I should ask
my mother

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; heart that
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; reverberates

a face, blushing, with soft eyes
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; perky plum

sweep of the polish brush up
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; the nails

crystal ball
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; cloud &nbsp; cloud
 bow
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; cake w strawberries

the high priestess wearing orchids:
on her iphone it looks like a bride,
how embarrassing, I had meant
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; pink rain princess

the vortex, or portal, I was never sure

wave &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;wave &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; wave
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;wave &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; wave

the love hotel

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; a cloud &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; a cloud

pink poodle, chick
 new from the egg

sun that sets into the water without
changing the sky

I Was Never Sure

Under the damp canopies of Ditmas Park
I turn my head up to the lilacs heavy
with rainwater and their delicate smell.
I&rsquo;m carrying rose quartz in my hip pocket
so I can feel *embodied*. The last time
I saw you it was summer and our clothes
stuck to us. Now it&rsquo;s spring, when the air 
begins to warm and wetten, and a physical 
existence begins to feel at least possible again.

Lately, all my friends want to talk
about masculinity, which is tempting
to reject altogether,
like, I&rsquo;m supposed to be it
but have no interest in its restriction,
its dull refusal of excess.
Still I could just be bitter
because everybody seems to think
I&rsquo;m some strange, wispy butch
who forgot to stop painting her nails.
 
We group-text selfies for affirmation.
Kai&rsquo;s reflection startles
after a dramatic haircut and they&rsquo;re sick
of everybody projecting boi-ness
onto them, and will this make it worse?

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &ndash; o bb

let&rsquo;s never care &ndash;
 
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &ndash; 💖

I&rsquo;m here to meet Paco
in the empty apartment
we&rsquo;ll live in together.
They say they&rsquo;re in search
of a masculine gentleness. 
The super guided them here
over the phone to a hidden key
You will be in a strange hallway
you will turn completely
past the gilded lobby
there will appear before you
a door, reach up with your fingers
and feel. I decide to allow
for complexity.
 
It&rsquo;s my familiar way: leaving
the building and thinking of you
in Buenos Aires I realize I don&rsquo;t want
to ask when you&rsquo;re coming home
or where home will be for fear
of becoming expectant.
 
The wetness of spring
is light and weight at once;
the blades of grass are bent
by gleaming beads of rain.
I walk by a bunch of teenage boys
leaving a track meet, loud, sharp and salty
and as we pass, one of their hands
brushes mine. I am always
expectant anyway.

Lilacs

Inside the Columbarium I climb slowly up,
circle the dome and peer into the vaults:
glassed off dioramas of loss and left behind:
eyeglasses folded up,
cigarette tucked into the brass handle,
photos of young men
beautiful in each other&rsquo;s arms,
now decades dead. LEDs flash Terry Terry 
Terry forever. I lean close to read Gavin&rsquo;s 
letter to Hugh about the space between 
one&rsquo;s belly and the other&rsquo;s back and what
was held there once. This morning I&rsquo;ve come
from an unfamiliar bed, sunburnt,
hungover, lip split from their teeth
so that every further kiss hurt sweetly.
 
Jos&eacute; Mu&ntilde;oz explains: we disidentify
with what won&rsquo;t hold us, but which
we cannot leave behind. Standing here
it&rsquo;s like I&rsquo;ve felt my affinity with them
would somehow ungirl me.
Then I consider men at the age they&rsquo;d be
if they had lived and I think it&rsquo;s easier
to love the dead, who haven&rsquo;t had the chance
to abandon us. What do I know.
If I&rsquo;m honest I haven&rsquo;t tried to love
anyone, alive or dead, or at least I&rsquo;m sure
I didn&rsquo;t start last night.

San Francisco

It is very late.

&nbsp; Before you leave for good I dream
&nbsp; I returned to Mars where we&rsquo;d been before.
&nbsp; I came to a cluster of rocks we&rsquo;d arranged.
&nbsp; Flat rusts and browns, they rested
&nbsp; on their sides, circles cut from their centers.

I am drunk and wrecked, crying in bed
as you say you have finally seen
that I am not a woman. What comes
first is the clear relief of being known.
But desire trips us up &mdash; how I want and you don&rsquo;t.
 
&nbsp; Beyond the rocks stood the strange world
&nbsp; of red dust, canyons and clouds,
&nbsp; and it was wrenching to see our work,
&nbsp; here in this since-unvisited place, but so
&nbsp; lovely that any sadness swiftly passed.

In the morning shower we wash each other briskly,
brother cats in the wet air, and then we part.

The Bath, The Journey

and the lonely ghosts, always moving
 the french press from where you&rsquo;d put it
 or leaving the light on in the staircase
again, just so you notice, precise like cats
knocking coins o the desk &ndash; nudge nudge
clink &ndash; cause you&rsquo;re still not out of bed.
Every day is a watch or the ring
 you never take off and the line
 it&rsquo;s made when you nally do. 

We have one night left for me to tell
you what I&rsquo;ve learned about myself.
Not long to wait and chicken out
and stay a girl until you&rsquo;re gone. 

In the morning when you leave
 I put Bruce Springsteen&rsquo;s Greatest Hits
on repeat and sit on the porch
 with my percolated coffee
 (can&rsquo;t find the french press)
 and strands of mango
 in my front teeth from breakfast.
 Is there anything more out there? 

The fruit peel, the sun
in mid-gallop, sticking
to the edge of the knife.

Charles Theonia