Lady, I don’t know
shit about small-town,
low-budget drag culture—
rainbow frills superglued
over your hips, tucked
into matte black spandex—
but when you jumped
onto that table, belting
“King Jesus”
like you meant it,
like the world—
every electric one
of us—meant to deliver
ourselves to the Lord
Almighty Himself,
but—what?—forgot
and somehow ended up
here—the only gay bar
in Bloomington, Indiana—
I quaked.
I hollered as everyone
was, as everyone
who’d never known
the courage of a man
in a dress wants
to know that, yes—
finally—here, like everywhere,
is a place to lift your head
to prayer’s elation,
to the everlasting grace
three Long Islands and a man
simply cannot provide.
Mama, when my lungs gave
out—finally—
after your bow, all
I wanted was for you
to hold me
tighter than a priest
ever has, tighter
than the boy who left me
for the bartender
at the place across town
with the cyborg taxidermy
deer heads. All
I wanted was to know
my own breath
again, to know it
can grow stable—organically
or by whatever light
you’ve seen—
to know how.