Comportion

Comportion

 

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

tabernacle. Traitor

to my own voice, abomination

singing a solo to fervent applause. No.

I misremember. We didn’t clap.

Dance. Drink, or…fuck

that.

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.

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