New Queer Cinema

The white van lurched into my path,

reeking of cornfield weed, unwashed

jockstraps, a creased older man yanking

its side door open, grinning like heaven

just said, Welcome winner! He waved me

closer—I maintained three feet, a decade

of learning how park and pump guys

operated, kept one hand in my pocket

with the pepper spray, my wet hair

hiding half my face and a third

of my age, thwarting the algorithm

in their balls. The driver shouted,

Now dude—I waved them on, pushing

the heavy October air with my free hand,

thinking about how an hour before, inside

the blind curve on the cliff path,

a blue jay bothered by me and the rain

spitting through cautious ginkgo

and rusty needles, the nameless dad

leaning on the smooth limestone,

nodding twice when I arrived, grinning

like the devil said, You’re welcome!

My jacket and shirt shed in one tug,

I held his head on the rock, his cheek

against the O in the faded yellow

of cocksuckers cum here.

He grunted, yeah, use me, harder, more

spit, the bluejay silent or gone, over us

shouting like religion, up and down

working our knees. If penance helped,

I wouldn’t say a word. I came here

by choice, same as the rain—for mud,

possibly failure, the path uphill slick

roots, hoof holes, no divergence

necessary—I knew who I was wherever

I ended—up or down. Maybe the jay

didn’t know he was beautiful. Maybe

he thought I wasn’t. The old man

roared like a house fire, the van

squealing out of the lot to lurk

another Sunday, confirming rumors

to answer prayers.