queer

 musings:  
the  art  of  zestful  
border  
crossing  
 
by  
Robert  Crenshaw  
 
Nord  Award  Project  
Preview  
 
 bou
n|Puritan|d
aries
Pilgrims [II]

Our pilgrimage to love is [secretly] considered

self-d e s t r u c t i v e
incredibly messy and
utterly hopeless
by many
no-nonsense,
heavy-with-grief-from-yet-
another-flop
souls—
because
we were
never
taught
[why]
[or how]

to love.
Z
E
S
T
Y coronas  
c l o s e t clean
out

Tip
toe
in
to
clos-
ets
to
play
our
game
of
hide
and
seek

We hide from those who seek

from black-and-blue dangers,
those cutting labels deep. we
trot care-
fully, afraid to wake the others; we
whisper-speak to preserve our
sooty homes. Whosesecret'ssafe?
they’ll see, wooden sarcophagi
hiss, mothball cherubs stare. I disrobe-
reveal for shushed loves
and five o' clock shadows; the folks
outside would never understand,
the bristles on chinny chins
rubbing prickly tickly--”eww,” hateful echoes
snuggled down sleeping in a secret.

small
speakers
in
stiff
asylums
play
the
W
e
a
 t
h
e
r
Girls
and
Cher--

Chained notes hang

barely audible, floating past
our drums, hum along
because we wanna
feel good, shhh...
so only we hear.
Bumping brown boxes
spill into recycled air songs
for the lonely
and songs of foggy
courtship. Air. Crack
the door--only a
sliver--too much breeze
too much freedom isn't good for
our patched-up souls. Feel darkness ventilate: let it slip through our rickety c
r a
c k s
clo
sets
and
war
drobes
make
us
gluttons
for
free
air.

Gorge
little ones, in you go. Remember: bathed in a pinesap history,
you'll baptize clean, purged of secrets: love fairy
love trans love gay love bi love queer love
questioning love drag queen love drag king love
intersex love but where for art thou, hetero? You can’t hide out
in the open, love. It
simply doesn’t do; we, in these secret-tight tombs, are not
alone, so don’t believe
the ruse.
Come out
little,
come out
old
come out
breezy,
come out
bold,
come out,
come out,
wherever you
are.
Our cloaks!
secret service scarabs
Wait, click, knock to pick
our pyres clean; to rid us as we waste away.
Termites infest our closet tombs; myopic workers grubbing,
whittle-chew, delighting
in once sacred parts—his panty-
hose here, a few dolls there—preserving
a Home’s blissful slumber.
Our
Fearful
Game! Our Shameful Closets!
We pay to play, relinquishing pats and pecks, grins and ‘I Love You’s.”
Asylum sought in a maddening house. But imagine: Our dusky, sooty secrets—
the secrets we share--finally brought to light.

Tip toe
out of
clos ets
to play
a game
of chide
and seek

“Ah!”
QUEER AFFIRMATIONS.
Accompanying  Poem  to  “Breaking  the  Silence-­‐-­‐Gender  Slighted  Sons  Speak  Out”  

Elegy of the Patriarch

You left me, Father,

and we didn’t say goodbye.

We loved in silence, didn’t we? Because

2,000 miles is a long journey for love, especially
with no telephone lines, postal carriers, or family messengers
summoned to pass that three-
word-
torch.

You left me, Pop,

in silence.

Our dear silence echoes

Responding to the thump
of life-giving beats.
Cold. Metal. Breathe. Slowly.
The doctor called it a heart murmur, but
I told her my heart is a little
shy
And not to worry: I get it from
My father.

You left me, Papa,

to gaze at a face—a mask now, a shimmery shade of autumn brown
reflecting phosphorescent, a halo—at peace with—with—
saggy lips, fallen angel lips.

I found a box of deathly stillness, a remedy

for grim sweet nothings,
at your make-up Goodbye;
Yet, I heard those nothings still--still--
between syncopated gasps and our
Trembling hands even long

After. I mourned you, the weight

of our love. Did
You know? Did it flit
through
our mumbling code?

I carved an epitaph from the heart, extra fine--just for you:

A patriarch has fallen.
A court in mourning,
Mourns the end of a legacy,
Mourns the end of his reign,
Mourns the end of knowing our place:
His children, jesters and loyal subjects
His wife, adviser impaired by feminine weakness (‘cause the Bible told him so).
We reminisce gayly with sobs and wails, pomp and circumstance.
He ruled in sickness and in health.
Now the throne lays vacant,
awaiting its rightful successor.

You left me, Daddy, and

daddy, I left you, too. On
Porches past, doors bolted;
At the end of conversations, too
brief and few,
You were left.
In a swirl of years,
bitter and potent,
We left, together, apart.
At the end. In the end. Too
Long and cold, too much sin
swimming in loving blood.

I mourn still; through faint echoes and fine epitaphs,

Can’t you
hear my heart murmur?
Listen
closer. Past the silence and sin.
Can’t you hear it
murmur?

Goodbye, Patriarch,
Goodbye.