queer-with-a-pen

a poet in the desert

i take it upon myself

to search for god

out in the desert

 

that vast expanse of

flat land running out to

the mountains and eventually

meeting the sky makes me wish

i had wings

 

but all i have are these

shaking hands and the

worn boots on my feet

 

and out in the desert

i will dig in the warm dirt

until those shaking hands 

of mine bleed, and

my knees bruise

 

maybe if i dig deep enough,

for long enough,
i’ll find what still scrapes

against the softest parts

of me

 

and maybe the sun that

beats down upon me,

the driving rains that

slake my thirst,

will know how to find what

it is that i seek

 

but maybe god isn’t out

there in the desert, among the

cactus and cowboys and

that snarling wild thing that 

still lives in my chest 

 

there will be no lonely

little whitewashed church that

i will worship at, no pews for

me to kneel upon and confess

the sins of loving too much

and too loud

 

nay, my love, my heart,

there is only your hand in mine,

that sparkle in your sea-glass eyes,

and the rumble of your laugh

like thunder over the course sands

of this poet’s heart of mine that you

are slowly dotting with flowers