November, start of summer

November, start of summer

November, start of summer

i.

Thirty-eight degrees. Windless. Worse on the asphalt.
Any hotter and rails would have buckled. Trains ran
slow that day. If I start with the weather, it’s to pretend
it’s not always with myself. Though here’s my complaint:
unlike nimble Jack, I fell on the candlestick, it not only
penetrated me, but the wick is growing, twisting up
around my spine through my ribs looking for escape.
So I went to one of those dark places that most gay men
don’t tell their straight friends about, pounded the maze’s
corridors, and forgot the sun outside. Sisyphus trod
up and down; our punishment is circular, chasing one
another’s tails. At last, someone turned around. He had
the most un-gay hair I’d ever seen. Poofs are coiffed
with product, or shaved short, but his thick ruddy
coils high on his scalp, almost hid the rest of him.
I couldn’t coax him into a cubicle. He’d been inside
for hours and was spent. But I sank my hand into
those burnt red cords and pulled him like an anchor
to my mouth, and we kissed, clanging against
the lockers and groping each other. The wick emerged
from my right ear and was lit by his crimson hair.



ii.

The next day I felt lifted and light
and forced to notice I was something
called happy, which made me realize
I hadn’t been the whole month before.
I’d thought what I needed was some
rumpy-pumpy, hip-swinging action
to stop me thinking. But sex mixed
with desperation or compromise
can make things worse. A kiss was
enough. On my cycle home from work
I saw strings of shoes laced together
and thrown over telephone wires, a man
playing soccer with his mutt, two men
in the middle of a sidewalk trying to
put socks on a girl. A spent jacaranda
flower fell from a high branch. I rode
towards it, let it hit me in the face.