I am finished
calculating each move.
I like the math of lust
and the results of unforseen,
unbidden trust,
the kind that swallows you whole
and spits you out smiling in the late morning sun,
under the gaze of the doorman
who still wonders what a lesbian really looks like.
She looks like me,
an animal navigating
the ways of man
dressed in Victoria Secret, J-Crew, and Macy’s.
She searches for meaning
in the bottom of a cortado
as if the mug’s lower lip
could actually kiss back.
She sucks on normalcy
while spewing back her own conventions,
her own honorable mentions
that never quite follow in step with the greats.
But nobody really ever admits
to finding themselves on the shoulders
of a giantess,
and I am no exception.
I carry my own slump
with a grain of fault,
and just hope tomorrow
I get closer to that space
beyond the yellow brick road,
beyond the promise of clarity,
beyond the desire for foresight.
Nothing is harder to come by.
