Posted in Poetry


I know
about gender bending, I learned
from my uncle Trevor. For a hot-blooded,
American male, he sure had one hell of a
softer side.

I remember the weekend

when my aunt Hillary caught him watching gay porn.

It was crazy, man.
The whole family—like 28 of us—had planned
to visit their house, to celebrate my cousin’s 4th birthday.

Hillary—we call her that now—
was screeching so loudly, that you’d swear uncle had declared
bankruptcy or slapped
their daughter in a fit of drunken rage. We could hear her, even from the driveway.

It’s weird, when you think about it, that she didn’t call to cancel.

My dad couldn’t decide
whether we should go inside or drive home. It was only after
a five minute break in the noise that we decided to make sure
everyone was still alive.

I’m not sure if he knew we were there, but
I’ll never forget the first words I heard him say
in response: “Just because I like to suck a little dick
from time time, doesn’t mean I can’t love you.”

It was in that exact moment, that I became aware
of the complexity of sexuality and gender presentation.



Trying to find the right words.

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