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December 22, 2014

King Llanza

                                     I never had a closet.

                               Always a big utility drawer

                               to keep all my clothes, accessories,

                               and hoarded items.

                               Shirts to match the hues

                               of my stained glass heart. Concealed

                               lust and relieved discomfort: the role

                               of my underwear,

                               just under where a pair of pants is

                               ready to walk me into my shape.

                               I knew I was different, soft as gratitude

                               underneath dilated eyes

to a rainbow;

                               the storm is as forgotten a name

                               as water in

                               and  on the soil

                                    water in the air

                                                   the sky.

                                                       Oh how abundance becomes

                               the smell of dirt after a burden falling

                                                             all at once,

                               looking up is an open suggestion.

                               I am but a clear puddle, willing

                               to mimic the clouds as they part

                               with silver-lined edges.

                               Every day I dress comfortably.

                               Today, I look in the mirror asking:

                               “How could anybody not notice the soil

                               of his brown eyes, holding

                               such a vibrant hologram garden?”

                               My flowery brain, a static of colors

                               entangled by the stem.

                               I sit with my mother at the living room

                               and ask her to undo my knots, the way

                               she would of my late sister’s hair

                               that reaches to her hips, curtaining

                               who I truly am before anyone else.

                               Teary-eyed, scared

                               she’d pull them out like weeds.

                               Instead, her arms hold me

                               like a cradle in the restless and forgotten

                               nights of my infancy. She said:

                               We’ve always wondered. But here, before

                               me, the dear promise after the flood…

                               A little of a year’s time before this,

                               my mother bought seven plain V-neck tees—

                               each a color of that curved light which

                               stands on both ends—for me.




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