mary, christlike, babied

when i look at
your face
i feel like
eating candy
all empty nothing
& nag in the guts,
but oh, what a thrill
to ingest 

your sweet face
a teenaged dream
33 guitar hero
faggot christ
sweating & shivering
heaven

your hair was made
to make boys like me
come wistful as we watch
through computer screens
& dream depictions
how pretty you strum
(it's not fair, cliche, yes,
but so there)

the girl in me tips
into this blue yearning
as we pulse together
sailors on a ship
in love

you say you like my hair
& i wonder if, when i cut it,
you still will
when i show you all 
the man in me, will you 
still sing things like,
you taste how flowers smell?

do we remain
romantically relevant
in other form?

three cheers for shape-shifters
anonymous & late-blooming things,
which were never actually tardy
just on a timeline other than the known/
imposed one, so doesn't that make
them successful by other (queer, punk)
standards?

how unbridled would we be
if we could understand our lives
& selves as tapestry, each thread
& weave different & unique,
not a sole disclaimer of any one fate
but a gradation to be recognized
& celebrated

a form ever growing
the crush of the definites

i speak to my sister 
on the phone today,
& she talks of her family's
holiday traditions-- & i realize,
again, the gift of consistency

the comfort of predictability,
a world to move around in

i have two great fantasies,
neither innately sexual,
first: that i am strained, 
some great sieve moving 
thru my body & psyche
all detritus lifted,
my insides flowing freely
& a semblance of ease

the other, to be cradled
simple as that, to be held
& rocked for hours & hours
no expectations, mary
napping on the teat