Basic. A poem.

For the dinner-party guests.

There is something so basic
about a roomful of men sharing a meal, but–more than that–

also daring to share their hearts,
through moments of strain,
through moments of discomfort,
of searching for words that aren’t quite right
but aren’t quite random, either.

There is something so basic, so comforting
about the light touching of shoulders
as I sit among friends,
wondering if my ideas will get me shot–figuratively, at least–
by people I love.

Didn’t happen.
Because–maybe only in my heart–
I caught a glimpse of basic love:

love that listens to pain,
love that names oppression,
love that answers strange questions and plays card tricks,
love that snaps its flaming gay fingers
and laughs because
wrestling isn’t always with the demons,
and there is freedom in being honest.

The food was pretty damn good, too.
And there was root beer.



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