Dogs or a gnat.
Three dimes, Tuesday, or the space where an old lamppost used to stand. Your
Uncle Charlie’s left pinky finger. Dust motes or the long, raspy guitar solo
from the studio version of “Free Bird.”
Or myoclonic jerks. Or the declining entertainment value of the television
program, “Homeland.”
Tell me: Are our loves
less worthy than your own? Less deserving of respect somehow? Can you look me
in the eyes and say they’re any less central to our being?
Less sacred?
He caught my eye
from the other side of the yard of a neighbor of mine. It could have been the
hat. It could have been the ants that ran across the surface of his
poorly-painted beard. We made love under the full harvest moon and by morning,
I knew this was what I’d been born for.
It was who I was.
It is who I am. I was born this way, don’t you see?
