by Jae Casella
We call ourselves The Lavender Choir.
We practice every Monday night.
Charlie ushers us into the sanctuary.
The door lock clicks like the safety on a gun,
leaving the slur-slingers on the other side.
My old knees are scratchy from a lifetime
of kneeling in protest and false prayer. They bend me
into my seat in the alto section.
I tell Micah about the first gay men's choir.
He saw a picture of a giant quilt
with the names of dead guys.
Harvey Milk is a hero
in his history book, he says.
I get it. They don't know my whole life. Eyes crinkled
from searching for someone I could have been.
The etched smiles around my mouth
for every girl I loved from across the dance floor.
The curve of my spine from hiding
sagging breasts, slow walking
shuffling feet
sore from marching for them.
Voices soft as the fuzz on their faces
mix with tremors from the baritone bois.
Some squeaks and cracking throats reach
for bass notes and my own voice
strains to meet somewhere in the middle.
Some slick back bangs over short fades,
swell their chests out of their bindings
with every breath in, take and give
no fucks, puff their stubbled cheeks
They are brave and I am proud.
And maybe a little envious
of the x on their id's,
of mothers who saw them,
fathers who grew them, bonds
with friends who knew.
I had none because we hid
in the safety of our girlish names.
We hid to not be known as queer -
which in my days meant
freak.
Exhausted, I claw at my female skin
worn thin over male bones,
digging to sing my song aloud.
I am old now.
I arch my grief open
to the child who had to sing in the quiet
of their room, who ached
to stand shoulder to shoulder
with these younger versions
of me.
***
Jae Casella (they/them/Jae) is an emerging queer poet. They are living their semi-retired life on the coast of Maine. When they are not editing their poems, they enjoy date nights with their spouse, searching for sea glass, and treasure hunting with their metal detector. Obsessed with nature photography, their favorite place to be is outside.
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