Friday, October 16, 2009

May 15, 2009

You did not glance towards Evelyn
when you spoke of black women.
You did not look at Jon
when you spoke of gay white men.
You did not look at Patel
when you spoke of the Hindu faith.
You did not look at Renee
when you spoke of single mothers.

But it was not until you concluded class,
when you were saying nothing at all
that you looked at me.

What monster, what hero, what
pagan, what priest, what birth,
and what death do you think hides
beneath this bubbling skin,

And what do you think your
cataract eyes would do if they
finally saw it?

1 comment:

Jon said...

"Jon" is not a believably gay name, rendering this poem too fantastic to take seriously.