I Could Not See to See

Is this heaven? I ask you
after my mouth lingered onto the tip
of the white rose, its soft petals
reclaiming a common language. You
take my hand, swaying us
back and forth, almost steady.
I crumble into your arms,
as you hold me so tightly,
understanding what’s so common
what’s so right what’s so difficult
Hold me longer in your arms, our
nude bodies once again a unity,
our artistry either being a masterpiece
or a soon to be erased graffiti.
I feel your subtle kisses upon my neck,
as I think if I can read this poem to you,
can I not read a verse out loud
to a crowd without strange looks
or feeling like I am slicing my own wrists
to expose all of my secrets and horrors?
A few tears fall from my eyes,
staining your inner elbow, and you
soothe, kissing my upper back.

1 Title and poem inspired by John Dugdale’s “I Could Not See to See”

An Unwanted War

“How can I tell you. How can I convince you, brother; sister that your life is in danger. That everyday you wake up alive, relatively happy, and a functioning human being, you are committing a rebellious act. You as an alive and functioning queer are a revolutionary. There is nothing on this planet that validates, protects or encourages your existence. It is a miracle you are standing here reading these words. You should by all rights be dead.” -Opening words from a pamphlet by Queer Nation, handed out at New York Gay Pride Day parade, 1990

Exposure
is as deadly as sin

as if they are wishing
me

fully nude,
an undressed corpse:

I am dancing
as though I am still

rioting
in front of Stonewall

stepping on crashed bottles
and lucky pennies,

but still being battered
by uniformed police

and Westboro still
mocking, “Fag,

you are going to Hell!
God hates fags!”

I still
scream,

afraid they will turn us
into fragments

the same way they
tormented Sappho

because they
like to throw the Holy Bible

against us
as if they are the saints

and I am a sadomasochistic
pervert

who is writing on walls in asylums
like Ginsberg and Solomon

I still
scream,

spelling “FREE”
on my chest

kissing the men I love
in front of traditional porches

and in front of my own
mother who gasps

afraid she will be the one
to send me to conversion

as she is afraid another
queer would commit suicide

or her son be stoned
if I vacation overseas

or be brutally attacked
in a hate crime

in the land of the free
that only passed

equality
from a high-ruling court

because prejudice
still reigns, honestly

there’s more important
matters

than my politicized
body identity

the language
of my common tongue

As maroon smoke rises
around my frame

I still
scream,

Does my existence still
bother you

Jordan Shoop is currently in his senior year at Samford University, majoring in English. His poem “Tire Swing” won third place in the Northeastern Region of ASFA’s Aspiring Minds Poetry Contest, and another poem “The Chamber” was released in Live Poets Society of NJ’s “Inside My World.” His work has been released on In Parentheses. His recent work has been published in Wide Angle. Instagram: @jordancshoop