As close to the north star as I can go,
a lesbian living in slipper socks
flannel shirt and work boots, rugged
gear to shovel toddler-high snow
de-ice walkways so the postman doesn’t
slip scrawling icicles on our envelopes
The news isn’t against me, invisibility isn’t
as sensational without violence
Clearly, in this afterlife, no one sees
the sorry lingerie ghosting in this deathbed
Through these panes, a poster child for the opioid epidemic
is windblown—breath of his nightmares radon in air.
The army vet installing our mitigation system
says lesbians on tour were falsely reporting rape
No transition from PVC pipes to reports from the field
except for the grammar of our marriage—
my vow to her vowel is an Afghani in his I.
We are not modern in our naming
Already implied in our carpet munching is non
conformity. The fluidity of our scissoring is mermaidic.
When the bill comes—Yes, we are together—
when cashiers want to check us out
They cannot see this loving vs United States
I’m living in the bulldagger of my mind—
***
Photograph of Arisa White by Nye Lyn Tho.
