Mom Can’t Bribe Me Out of My Queerness

Out | comes

I
Are you the guy or the girl? Mom asks.
Both. Neither. Her hands 
malignant swans on the table. 
II
She harpoons a rainbow. Skittle-hail smacks the roof.
III
She dabs her eyes with her Love Wins apron.
Oh Sonny, I love it when you Cher.
IV
Are you sure? She looks me up and down. 
You dress like a Walmart dumpster. 
V
Yes god my precious twinkie slays the house!
VI
She squeezes a cubed steak. 
Blood hits a sizzling frying pan. 
My little miscarriage, she says, touching my cheek.
VII
How much? she asks,
opening her checkbook. 
How much to make you 
change your mind?

Smithfield Valley

Pasta Pete’s, weak jazz 
spilling from tinny speakers.
In the shadows out front, 
two cigarettes glow orange. 
Second-class citizens, Mom says. 
She’s not smoking these days, 
though I still find butts in aluminum foil 
tucked in a potted plant on her patio.
After dinner, we drive to a hill. 
She leans on me as we walk to an overlook,
sun setting, a rash of red and pink
like the clay in the ditch behind her shed.
From here, our town looks just as small 
as it feels: the houses are blocks 
a kid could hold, or throw.
This view, she says, deserves a cigarette,
rustling through her purse. 
I know, I know—they’re killing her. 
For the first time in a long while,
I almost wish they weren’t.