Other Wise
Like on any other day in eleventh grade,
I sat in the library -- open on all
four sides, a product of late '70s
smartchitecture -- waiting for class
and knowledge to descend like Jove
in a shower of gold upon me, the willing
Danaë. You walked, deliberate and rapid,
and stopped in your tracks at my seat:
"I don't know how you're going to take this,
but I don't want to be your friend anymore."
"Fine. Whatever." In seconds, I realized
what I should have said: "Your loss."
Isn't that how all friendships end,
with thoughts of what you should have said?
Half a lifetime later, I hope that I may
not have heard you right. Maybe you meant
"I don't want to be your friend anymore
but can't help it, and so I must abandon you
to red-necks and fag-haters and drag-queens
and other hyphenated half-lives, because
if I stay, I'm afraid I may become more
like you." One morning after we had play sex,
boyishly holding and kissing the things
our parents told us not touch: "You like this
more than I do. For me, it's just a phase."
I believed you. I knew I was queer and you
weren't. But appearances make men like you
something you could never be other wise.
01-22-99