I want to write about desire,
but Kitten is scratching at the
bathroom door again. He knows
something about yearn. When
the wind blows through the too-
tall hills of Tennessee, I reverent,
splay my tongue out, wait to taste
the snow of my friends’ kisses rolling
off the ochre plains of Oklahoma. Yes,
we’ve all kissed. & kissed & kissed.
Isn’t that what Queers do? Kiss joy
& call her Mother, give her a hand-
made crown of recyclables & watch
her lip-sync the sweat off her lacquered
brow. Composted pleasure is one-size-
fits-all & we share it like we’re sitting
table at last supper on the prairie.
There is no consume, only relish.
Where there is rot, we repurpose.
Where there is rot, we till. I want
to write about bois & bois laying
hands on each other and how
girls & ungirls can shed the world
from their skin when they bed
together, but the wind is beating
at my window, & I must answer
to it. I smell cracking wheat
crops & my skin cools, bristles in
kink-memory. GP, my sweet-pecking
chicken, has galed a cluck; Paige,
pop-punk princess, a forehead
kiss; Maya, 1 of 2 Leos I love to love,
a sting fresh from flogger; AnaMarie,
leather daddi of my dreams, has
sent a biiiiiiiiiiitch in his own
windwhistle. I tend to them like
lovers come – eagerly. I tend to
them like lovers – greedily. I want
to write about queer utopia, but
these mountains are all smoke &
squall. A plague upon houses
of cosmic glitter, raining fan claps,
waterlight disco lights beaming off
metaled leather, slicked necks
& buzzed heads. The wind is empty
today. I harness her with howls, ask
her to do my bidding. Here, I want:
package my tongue, wrap them
delicately in beeswax paper & send
them aloft to call my joys home.
—Merrick Sloane (Garden Party Collective)