In Which a Son and a Mother Meet at the Parking Lot of an Airport Where Queerness Attempts Not to Be a Metaphor for a Bridge

this time around / we begin where we are most tender
             the wreckage of our dear past / we stumble into

with a stark desire / to ask for a sweet tongue
             you say my son / & that becomes enough—

to know that / the true taste of freedom
             lies in our ability / to move toward each other

here i present myself / with no need for syntax
             my face pressed against the warmth / of your long

forgotten hand / what good can we afford the moment
             other than this —the recognition / of kinship

you pull me close / & the threshold becomes
             a history / we aim to forget