In celebration of Pride Month, here is a poem about the worlds we choose and the families we make through art.
Of course, it gets easier. But there is still that
occasional panic. Hungry, or even starved
for history, that sense of belonging, you
do a frantic search at the library. Keywords:
GAY or HOMOSEXUAL and POETRY or
WRITER and the screen distills the canon.
You pace by the aisle until it’s empty, read
that anthology in a safe corner, embarrassed
by the cover, though there’s really nothing
threatening about it. And then there are those
first loves: Auden, Doty, Whitman. They say
Here is the world. Here. It’s yours and it’s
all right. So you want to check it out, even
stand in line while your palms sweat
against the laminate, before you figure out
you have five dollars and thirty cents,
which is just enough to photocopy
the better third. So you step out of line,
hurry frantically until fifty-three pages
of their world are yours.