AT the queer karaoke bar

We say older queer couples

are “#goals,”

and watch them dance,

longing for a hand like that

in out own

And looks that gentle 

under harsh neon lights 

and for just a moment,

we think the future is possible 

and we go in the bathroom 

to check out our reflection in the mirror

because we can finally imagine 

crows feet, laugh lines,  and grey hairs at our temples

and not just a suicide in a closet

or a beating in a cornfield 

queer phototropism

when i stroke your face,
petals blossom from my fingers

we bloom
into a garden of violets and lilacs

our breath whispers into the meadows
of our intertwined bodies

causing every stem to sway, bend
and braid with one another

Why I can’t shuffle cards

I am sitting on your living room floor,
watching you try to teach me
how to fold my fingers around a deck of cards to shuffle them
the way you learned how in eighth-grade choir class,
but I keep getting distracted by how the light
folds around your face and
the way your smile makes my heart ache
in the best kind of way
so each time I try, the cards spill out
from my hands like a tarot deck gone rogue
with frustration at its user ignoring all the signs
it’s been giving because it’s ready for me to,
as that crab in the mermaid movie says,
kiss the girl and stop stalling.
but I can’t stop watching you grin
and can’t stop listening to you laugh
long enough to bridge the space between us
and do so, so I’ll keep playing with cards
and throwing them across the floor
as long as you will keep trying to teach me
so that I can keep watching you

My Words to The Mirror on National Coming Out Day 2018

When I was in eighth grade, I flipped down the visor of my stepmom’s car one day and opened the mirror. I stared at myself. I looked at every part of my face, every curve and angle. I blinked and blinked again, each faster than the last, trying to hold back tears.

“You are not gay,” I told myself pointing at my reflection. “You do not like girls. You aren’t gay and you never will be. You are straight.”

I pushed my glasses up so they rested on the top of my head and got closer to the mirror. I let my nose touch the felt of the visor and peered into the glass.

“I can’t be gay.”

But at the same time, I found myself wondering what the girl I had been staring at in science class’s eyes looked like this close.

A few days ago, I flipped down the visor in my car and opened the mirror just the same as I had so many years ago. This time, I looked at the bags under my eyes briefly and adjusted my hair. I smiled so I could check that I had nothing in my teeth. And then I flipped it back up so I could go get coffee with a girl, a beautiful girl, a girl whose eyes I enjoy looking at up close.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped telling my reflection I wasn’t gay and I started telling it I loved myself instead. Today is national coming out day, and I’m already out. I have a pink button hanging above my couch that loudly proclaims in neon green letters “I DIDN’T CHOOSE TO BE GAY I JUST GOT LUCKY.” I’ve been to pride parades and even walked in four. I cut my hair short, and I own a few too many flannels. I’m proud of who I am. I am proud of the fact I am a lesbian.

I sometimes though remember eighth grade me, staring at my face in the mirror and hating every part of it because, to me, that face looked gay. That face had gay thoughts. That face was that of a lesbian, and I was too scared to admit it.

I was too scared because I’d heard the slurs. I’d seen the news reports. I’d heard classmates make fun of queer folx. I’d heard time and time again that being gay was wrong.

Sometimes, I still feel fear when I think about the fact I’m gay. I still get scared when I walk into work because being out at work is risky. Sometimes, I still get worried when holding a girl’s hand as I walk down the street. I worry someone will say something, that someone will follow us, hurt us, or worse. I worry because I still read the news and see the stories of queer folx being attacked outside bars. I see the stories about the president stripping away the rights of queer UN members and wonder when I will be next. I read about queer folx in my town having their homes vandalized, and I get so scared.

And then I remember what it was like the first time I whispered the words “I’m gay” into a mirror. That day, I didn’t hold my tears back. I let them run down my cheeks as I repeated the words again and again to myself because they felt so at home inside my mouth.

I’m not scared of being gay. I’m scared of how the world treats people like me, people who weren’t born heterosexual. I’m scared of how the world treats trans and nonbinary folx. I’m scared of how the world treats people who are different.

I’ll keep saying in the mirror that I’m gay, that I love myself, and that I’m proud. However, that fear isn’t going to go away anytime soon. National coming out day is great. I’m so happy we have it. Yet, not everyone to safe to come out. There’s still a lot of people repeating the same words I once I said in mirrors all over the world. So the next time you say, “that’s so gay,” or “they can get married now, isn’t that enough?” I want you to think about eighth grade me. I want you to think about what it is like to be so scared to come out that you hate yourself. I want you to think about what it is like to be scared to walk down a street holding your partner’s hand. I want you to think about the fact that there are still countries where it is illegal to be gay, that trans folx get murdered daily, that queer couples often are barred from adopting, that queer people have their homes and cars vandalized, that queer people are still scared to even be alive. We’re still fighting for acceptance. We’re still fighting for love. We’re still fighting to exist.

I love national coming out day. This is me coming out again. I am a lesbian. I am a woman who loves women. More importantly, however, I love who I am. I will not stop being proud of myself even though some days it’s scary as hell.

Here’s to you, eighth grade Em. I hope you’re proud of me too.

Lesbians in The South Can Only Love at Night

In the stickiness of the Texas summer,
I lick a bead of sweat
from your greasy, salty flesh,
as the thunder cracks beyond the horizon
I follow the path the sweat would have rolled
down your chest and abdomen,
reveling in the shiver of your skin
and the quaking of your limbs,
as the lightning flashes,
obscuring the moonlight,
in favor of, for a brief moment,
illuminating our bodies
dripping from the humidity,
melting into one another
before surrendering our images
back to the fading dusk.


Originally published Sept. 2016 in CNCPT / LSBN 

The 1950’s lesbian pulp fiction bookcase at Recycled Books, Records, & CDs

each shelf filled with tales
of women lazily touching
each other’s thighs and forearms
with soft wandering fingers
in motel rooms and army barracks,
kisses hidden in shadowed moments,
hands held under the covers where
no one could see,
side glances in public spaces,
gentle hands cupping breasts late at night
with slow and gentle movements,
climaxes filled with women
screaming women’s names
and institutionalizations and suicides
because they used to say
no woman could be both
homosexual and happy


Day 7 of Na/GloPoWriMo

Once the government said you couldn’t publish gay porn because it would make readers gay. Maybe I read too much lesbian fanfiction growing up and that’s why I ended up gay. Or it could just be I was born this way, you know. I’ve been spending way too much money at this bookstore, buying as many books from this pulp fiction section as possible. Just to save them and to remember how things once were and how far we’ve come.

I’m not sure if I’m done with this poem. The end doesn’t feel quite there. Perhaps I need to add myself into the poem, an interaction with the books. But I also feel like it doesn’t need me in it. Hmmm. Thoughts for another day. Just glad I’m getting this up even if I’m not satisfied with it. Yay for posting drafts!

The titles of poems I would have written you

I named every flower after you
Your name grows gardens in my ears
I bathed you with sweet basil
You wore a crown of hydrangea petals

Forget me not in the foxglove fields
I lined my bed with snowdrop blossoms and prayed today
Turmeric tea is forbidden in houses of mourning
I stopped writing poems about flowers

Day 3 of NaPoWriMo

Prompt: Today, we challenge you to try this out yourself by writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names