I turned twenty-four and
dad decided to take
another stab at making
a man out of me.
On his command, I drove us
out to Hollywood where
you could get three sets of suits
for a hundred bucks.
What a steal! he exclaimed
as though his enthusiasm
would fertilize
something that never
existed within me.
Regardless, I followed him
into the outlet and I
allowed him to wrap
the cheap, heavy thread
around my tired shoulders,
to salt the wound of my body
with his idea of truth.
I let it happen
but I did not forget
what I was
beneath the cover of the flesh:

five million faggy mountains
slicing through fields full
of dreamed-up tongues and
unnamable bluish grasses
each blade the length
of a universe
stretching inward toward
a singular point
of
life-sustaining unlogic—

Dressing myself behind
the heavy polyester curtain,
I listened
as dad held the suit guy hostage
with the oft-told tale
of the night he encountered
real-life Biblical demons,
how at first he felt their presence
tightening inside his chest,
and then witnessed them crawling
up and down his walls
and how he prayed and cursed them
in the name of the lord
until they dissolved
like sugar into the dark

And he never said this, but I
knew he was convinced they
came for me next
and colored my nails
and stretched out my hair
and adorned me with flowers
and forced my inside places to whisper
woman woman woman
late each night at the
moment just
before sleep

And I knew he knew
who I was becoming
and I understood
what the suits were for So

I tossed them in the back
of my trunk
where they sat
waiting for years
and the day I sold that car off
those suits were still in there

poetry-magazineFrom the magazine:Birthday Suits

This Is What Makes Us Worlds

From the magazine:
Birthday Suits