By Ari Banias
The magnolia before it blooms stands
bare as a statue from antiquity or
a shaved puss, it flowers first
then greens. A pissed off dyke
climbs into the branches
to be held by an ancient
indifference and both
were me. Yet it’s possible I am
a short bald man. That I am neither
a big-bosomed wide-hipped pretty
nor a short bald man. An antelope, an elk, a deer
on this rug, a twiggy tree.
The genderless squat figure,
solo, blurry, hands on hips, that repeats.
A plush life of winter and
summer colors of flowers alongside
tight checkered bands
edging the broad green center
where we look for each other,
a woods, a pasture, a park, a yard, a median of grass
set in a concrete mold situated
within a pay lot. How it feels to stand
outside a house at night whose lights are on.
Whose lights are on.