I practice my own baptisms
Washing away the past
At each light

Most days
Some days I lack the energy for a clean slate

Blackness under finger nails
Acknowledging my sins

There’s a poetry in showering
But there is also poetry in choosing to live

winter plea

cold in my bed
with the onset of winter
blowing air through the poorly sealed window
There isn’t much room here
but there’s more than enough for two—
for you

to join me.
Join me…
Please.
leave your work, your school.
Travel half the distance of your state.
Iowa to Nebraska.
Tim to me.
To me.
And then I wouldn’t be so cold,
nor would I be so alone.

Work in Nebraska and You

I found work in Nebraska for you.
I chose to stay for me.
But I still love you.
There is a new boy.
He is cute.
Smart.
Loyal and caring.
He isn’t you.
I’m not sure I want him.
The unknown is frightening.
And I want familiar.
I want you
in my bed,
because the weather
outside is cold
and you are known.
To me you are known.
Your hand in mine,
and mine in yours.
My arm around your stomach.
Warmth.
Familiar warmth.

variations on home

I
her big smile in her too small mouth
II
my couch
III
the long exhale
after a day of social pleasantries
IV
the skyline of a familiar city
V
the right train stop
on the first try
VI
a letter from a friend
VII
your best friend’s name
VIII
your sister’s couch
IX
Mitchell calling you a name
X
the mist of a spiral fountain
XI
someone screaming your name
XII
that someone screaming actually calling for you
XIII
“where have you been all my life?”
XIV
your usual drink
XV
your mother’s voice
XVI
late night chats in work’s parking lot
XVII
never feeling lost
Home is not a place to be found.
I have been in my house and never felt so alone.
Home is not a place to be found.
Home is who you’re with
when your smiles are no longer lost.

untitled winter 2012

my friend told me I should write,
so I took a pen and opened my heart.
The world is a mix of gray
and my veins are awash with paints.
I want to give you a reason to stay—
a meaning for smiling.
Did you know that, that the heart beats
between eighty-six and one hundred and forty-four thousand times a day?
That’s a hundred thousand reasons to be grateful
and some change to make a wish.
My wish is for change.
So if I could take this quarter and make you smile,
I would spend all my dollars on you for a while.
AND, If my pennies were worth your thoughts
my hands would be empty but my heart not lost.
So, I’ll tell you here
that this world has enough darkness
and what it needs is you. So stay.
Stay with me for a while.
Stay just one more day.

Michael

I’ve known my brother is gay for years, probably just as long as he has. He was invited to a birthday party, Lily’s birthday party, in the fourth grade. All eleven ten year old girls and my brother were sitting on the grass when Lily put her hand between her and Michael. And, Michael placed his hand there too, but he didn’t seem comfortable.

In first grade they had all the students line up for the bathroom by holding hands. One day Michael was next to Paul in line. Everyone held hands to form the queue, and Michael didn’t let go. He kept holding Paul’s hand all the way down the hall, like his hand belonged there. Like there was nothing more natural in the world.

I didn’t know then, nor did I know in fourth grade. I figured it out in seventh just before Micael came out. Michael, Lily, Jordan, and I were laying in the empty lot next to our house the autumn of 2003 when Michael said he had a problem. “So, there’s this boy I like in our science class,” He said. “Bill,” we answered in unison. “Yeah, and I want to ask him out but I’m not sure if he’s,” “Gay,” we finished. “So you all already knew?” “Yup,” said Jordan. “Duh,” Lily responded. “I love you,” I whispered. He reached for my hand.

Goodbye

I stand in front of the fogged bath mirror,
thoughts of you clinging
to me as the water on my skin.

Warmth flushes my cheeks.
I look embarrassed.
I have yet to give you your leave,
to tell you you’re free.

I reach for my tooth-brush,
then, the paste.
A cup of water.
Q-tips.
Contacts case.

And the thought of you drifts
off like a child losing his balloon.

Waiting

It’s been seven months since
we first kissed.
You didn’t want me then.

It is March now.
The land is beginning to thaw.
It has been waiting
to come back to life.

Tonight you texted me.
It’s been a week since
we last kissed.

I wonder if you love me,
if I’m waiting to live.

Henry

It is the 18th of August, 2011. The RAs of Ignatius University just finished training and the freshmen move in tomorrow. Today is a Thursday. I’m visiting with Elisa, and 10 o’clock has changed to midnight, and midnight has become one in the morning. We are giggly and tired and catching up on a summer spent apart. She and I are happy, happy for the first time in a very long time. Elisa and I jump subjects quickly. I tell her about humidity induced slick skin and she tells me about a summer full of taking things in. I tell her of sharing my poetry and relearning how to feel. She tells me of feeling too much and finally telling her mother no.

“So, Anthony and I, he’s super cute by the way, we were just up sitting in our room talking.”

“Yeah, I know. He told me his favorite part of training was chatting with you.”

“Wait, he said that? Really? Anyway, we are just sitting in the room before bed and he looks at me, and I kid you not, says, ‘Gabe, are you a homosexual?’”

“No!”

“Yes! I couldn’t help myself. I laughed in his face.”

“Well, what did you say back?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I told him the truth, I guess. I mean, I don’t consider myself gay, but I like guys. So, maybe I’m gay. Sometimes I like girls too, so maybe I’m bi. I think labels are dumb.”

“How did he handle it?”

“He was totally fine. He’s an interesting character. A lot of the new RAs are interesting this year.”
“Do you think the RAs last year talked about us like this?”

“Probably,” Elisa chuckled. “God, they are fascinating though. Like Henry, I can’t believe he wore a bow-tie tonight.”

“I know. He pulled it off though, I think.”

“You think?”

“I mean, he already looks like he is thirty.”

“Gabe!”

“What?! It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Elisa smiled in response.

Trying to write a story. Fiction is not my forte.

i just can’t get you out of my head

he tells me not to write about him
blonde. blue eyes. single (available?).
he tells me not to write about him,
and i don’t know why.

we are lying in my bed,
and i am crying
about the great nothing or something.
he asks me why.

i tell him i do not know,
that i am irrevocably broken,
and i am sorry.
i tell him i love him.

he searches for the right words.
“i love you.
i love you.
i love you,”
he says.
and i am crying
because i am sad,
and i have never been so happy.
i have never been so happy