Listen while two feet soak.
We wash feet on the New Haven Green,
feet that need deep callouses,
that walk in wet socks after spates of rain.
If you listen while two feet soak,
maybe you come to know the daily movements
of a woman named D.,
whose feet drag from the warming center
into winter dawns to rest in the bus shelter
until the library opens at 10,
who hurries to the seat by the window
in the sci-fi/fantasy reading room,
and waits for her ankles to hinge and tilt
with A Wrinkle in Time,
turning gravity into a Mrs. Whatsit lullaby.
On Sundays and all public holidays,
when the library is closed and it’s too cold to sit outside,
she stands on sleek sidewalks as long as it takes
to panhandle enough bus fare to the Post Road Mall,
where recliners line the promenade to the shops,
and the security guard who works Sundays and
No need to profess a thing.
Restorative, queer, unfuckablewith.
If a religious building is in itself a threshold…what possibilities are uniquely latent in the threshold’s threshold…what wisdom lies on the church steps, in the side alley, in the far corner of the graveyard, on the margins, and nowhere else?
The Highland Park I knew blurs with the Highland Park that so recently was, and yet the memorials that frame the ends of this street reveal the Highland Park that we will yet be.
Bees needle our sin-stung flesh in your hive
Yet some kind of sweetness
still touches the tongue.
We expected to hear about shared experiences of homophobia and isolation, but much to our joy and surprise, we have also heard, time and time again, about how our narrators have found and cultivated communities that affirm the lives of queer people.
But there was love, love, love,
dripping from our hands.
We both gripped the sharp edge,
and it was painful
All of the intensity and unpredictability of this season, the surges of hope and terror, the stirring of memory and desire—word images, symbols, and sounds arranged in rhythm, engaged in elegy and mystery may be our best bet for helping us hold it all.
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