What power a day may hold.
That awkward moment, Kentucky
boy crossing the Manhattan street,
feigned nonchalance. Still,
“I have no clue how
to comport myself.”
That crosswalk, seared into
my worst remembrance. Holy,
holy, holy sung in my father’s
to my own voice, abomination
singing a solo to fervent applause. No.
I misremember. We didn’t clap.
Dance. Drink, or…fuck
Seventeen. Reading a Star Wars novel
in the jacuzzi at a youth retreat.
Pastor sent me
across that uncomfortable crosswalk,
hand between my thighs,
“Tell me anything. Tell me, but
say nothing of tonight.”
I sang. Not for him, his wife,
or my father’s polite congregation,
but I found my song
as I pushed Pastor’s hand away, stood,
then crossed against the light.