I am naked in the tangle of sheets
that represents my stomach
being eaten alive by some rough beast
made of tears and anxious teeth
grinding away at the dreams I had.
My wife is sleeping next to me,
the blanket falling off her breast
as I pull it tighter over my own
and move another inch away,
testing the waters of distance, of acting
like I don’t want to just wrap myself around her,
but I can’t – I can’t touch her anymore,
can’t slide my hands across her skin
without thinking, without thinking
about the man on TV who wants to erase us,
that wants to break something more holy than rainbows,
more beautiful than the rings we wear.
When the whole world looks red,
I press a button and the man disappears,
the light disappears
and I feel like disappearing, too.
I whisper, a whimper,
and she rolls over, one hand cradling my head,
the other, on my hip, I grab and move
to the space between the knot in my stomach
and the place it’s okay to touch when you’re a star.
The whole room is dark now,
and she shines.
Itzel Park is a queer Latina living in the state of Washington, in a state of restless curiosity. She thinks her wife should be President. A grandes males, grandes remedios.
Photo by: Ana Prundaru