will you love me/ when i'm sitting/ and no one's looking/ up at/ me? when i'm not/ moving like sex?/ when i move/ beyond sex? when / i'm not moving at all? when i'm waiting./ just waiting. wading so/ love me when i'm streaming in between/ gender extremes/ and behavior/roles.../ when i'm waking/ up in the mo(u)rning/ before associations/ to name, physique/ and voice.
-from my poem "shades in between/untitled"
against my will, i'm still reeling
from last week's engagement at mount holyoke
when a young woman asked me to
"do a queer poem"
after i'd been reciting for like an hour.
"what have i been
doing?" i retorted, containing
the impulse to rage.
later she told me she wanted
more erotic poems.
is that all queer is? erotic?
i have always wanted to be
lesbian chic. imagine me
at ten, rewinding (and rewinding)
that watered-down
kiss between miss celie
and shug avery, wishing i were
wearing her
red feathers--that she was
smooching me.
even when i was
a teenager, tripping
in and out of love
with boys, accepting
their muttered marriage
proposals and all
my seventh-day adventist family
expected of me, my journals
were peppered with eye-salt insult--
internalized fear. i wanted to be
like those girls
who loitered after school--after-hours--
in the pitt of harvard square.
those smart-looking girls
with their thick nose rings, bright blue
hair, vegan skirts and safety pins
placed seemingly unsafely where their
nipples hid beneath hand-sewn shirts.
i worshipped those girls who wore
their scandels like halos:
did you hear?
that one was
caught going
down on
that one in
the school swimming
pool this morning.
i wanted them to notice me.
to like me. to steal a kiss
i'd really give to them for free
if they had asked me. yeah me.
good example me. good grades
and extension braids me.
vice-principal's buddy me.
me principal in the play.
me class president. no swearing
me. me denying
masturbation. me selling
christian shell. me hiding
hindu dreams.
no one quite suspected
the scandal i was
capable of--despite
my obvious soft-butch phase
junior year: walking out
with my stepfather's slacks on, donning
his ties as belts. yeah me
gobbling feminism up
and sticking out
my tongue.
what can i say?
i am scandalous now.
abnormal, immoral, my father
screamed. yeah
i drink water now
without the harsh chlorine.
and that is my metaphor
for something erotic.
that's how i'm setting the scene.
but am i lesbian chic?
me skirts and tights
and long-haired lover
wearing skirts and tights
of her own?
am i dyke enough for you?
me poems about tough uncles
and the little gay boy i knew?
me remembering the beautiful
project girl who kicked
my ass at age six?
how much more explicit
can i speak who i am?
or is it what i am
that concerns you?
do you need more details?
a strip show, perhaps? my pussy
on a platter for your consumption?
or can i just be me? queer because
some folks ain't. a poet because
i've always been. fuckable only
when i say so. on my own terms (love)
and terminology.
sister, i could be
your ROY-G-BIV mascot.
your odd-freak poster-child.
but i'd rather paint you art
with all the colors
from that giant crayola box.
and i will think
outside that box when i am
loving you
the most. cuz
at my best, i'm writing
love--re-citing love--queer(ed)
or no.
Peace, Lenelle.
http://www.lenellemoise.com