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