the norms are as assorted as
a pile of clothes on your bed;
you squeeze in & out of them—
none of them fits.
which is to say you never find the right reasons.

in your wildest conceit,
you dance with beautiful boys round the forbidden tree,
& your love is high fevered, is the soft velvet of sin.
but at most, you feel licentious.

freedom is translated as violation of society’s will
where you come from.
you cannot afford to throat your desires – not
even your discomfort.

this place where your body stops where a country begins,
love is not contentment.
love is risk, is we don’t do that here, be warned.

the queer mania is as real as sight for sore eyes.

the aptness of being frightened is never more apparent
than when you are in hiding from a people
you have always known as kinfolks.






Photo by cottonbro from Pexels