it’s not just about the delicious electricity
coursing through my veins. It’s all about love.
And you are the source of that, right? Amen.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
Possibilities
As a child, I was wary,
often felt cornered.
To escape, I regularly
stashed myself
in the closet,
comforted by curtains
of cotton. Silk. Velour.
Avoided wool, which
encouraged my
itching
the ever-present rashes
on my arms, legs. My skin
reacted to secrets, lies,
and taunts by wanting
to break out.
Now I hide behind
a wall of silence, bricked
in by the crushing
desire to confess,
but afraid of
my family’s reaction.
Fearful I don’t have
the strength to survive
the fallout.
Seth
As Far Back
As I can remember,
I have known that
I was different. I think
I was maybe five
when I decided that.
I was the little boy
who liked art projects
and ant farm tending
better than riding bikes
or playing army rangers.
Not easy, coming from
a long line of farmers and
factory workers. Dad’s big
dream for his only son has
always been tool and die.
My dream is liberal arts,
a New Agey university.
Berkeley, maybe. Or,
even better, San Francisco.
But that won’t happen.
Not with Mom Gone
She was the one who
supported my escape
plan. You reach for your
dreams, she said. Factory
work is killing us all.
Factory work may
have jump-started it,
but it was cancer that
took my mom, one year
and three months ago.
At least she didn’t
have to find out about
me. She loved me, sure,
with all her heart. Wanted
me to be happy, with all her
heart. But when it came to
sex, she was all Catholic
in her thinking. Sex was
for making babies, and only
after marriage. I’ll never forget
what she said when my cousin
Liz got pregnant. She was just
sixteen and her boyfriend hauled
his butt out of town, all the way
to an army base in Georgia.
Mom got off the phone with
Aunt Josie, clucking like a hen.
Who would have believed
our pretty little Liz would
grow up to be such a whore?
I thought that was harsh,
and told her so. She said,
flat out, Getting pregnant
without getting married first
makes her a whore in God’s eyes.
I knew better than to argue
with Mom, but if she felt
that strongly about unmarried
sex, no way could I ever let
her know about me, suffer
the disgrace that would have
followed. Beyond Mom,
Indiana’s holier-than-thou
conservatives hate “fags” almost
as much as those freaks in Kansas
do—the ones who picket dead
soldiers’ funerals, claiming
their fate was God’s way of
getting back at gays. How in
the hell are the two things related?
And Anyway
If God were inclined
to punish someone
just for being the way
he created them, it would
be punishment enough
to insert that innocent
soul inside the womb
of a native Indianan.
These cornfields and
gravel roads are no place
for someone like me.
Considering almost every
guy I ever knew growing up
is a total jock, with no plans
for the future but farming
or assembly-line work,
it sure isn’t easy to fit in
at school, even without
overtly jumping out of
that frigging closet.
I can’t even tell Dad,
though I’ve come very
close a couple of times,
in response to his totally
cliché homophobic views:
Bible says God made
Adam and Eve, not Adam
and Steve, and no damn
bleeding-heart liberal
gonna tell me different.
Most definitely not this
bleeding-heart liberal.
Of course, Dad has no clue
that’s what I am. Or have
become. Because of who
I am, all the way inside,
the biggest part of me,
the part I need to hide.
Wonder what he’d say
if I told him the first person
to recognize what I am
was a priest. Father Howard
knew. Took advantage, too.
Maybe I’ll confess it all
to Dad someday. But not
while he’s still grieving
over Mom. I am too.
And if I lost my dad
because of any of this, I really
don’t know what I’d do.
So I Keep the Real Seth
Mostly hidden away.
It is spring, a time of hope,
locked in the rich loam
we till and plant. Corn.
Maize. The main ingredient
in American ethanol,
the fuel of the future, and
so it fuels our dreams. It’s
a cold March day, but the sun
threatens to thaw me,
like it has started to thaw
the ground. The big John
Deere has little trouble
tugging the tiller, turning
the soil, readying it for seed.
I don’t mind this work.
There’s something satisfying
about the submission, dirt
to churning blades. Submission,
yes, and almost as ancient
as the submission of one
beast, throat up to another.
One human, facedown
to another. And always,
always another, hungering.
Hunger
Drives the beast, human
or otherwise, and it is
the essence of humanity.
Hunger for food. Power.
Sex. All tangled together.
It was hunger that made
me post a personal ad
on the Internet. Hunger
for something I knew
I could never taste here.
Hunger that put me on
the freeway to Louisville,
far away enough to promise
secrecy unattainable at home.
Hunger that gave me
the courage to knock on
a stranger’s door. Looking
back, I realize the danger.
But then I felt invincible.
Or maybe just starved.
I’d Dated Girls, of Course
Trying to convince
myself the attraction
toward guys I’d always felt
was just a passing thing.
br />
Satan, luring me with
the promise of a penis.
I’d even fallen for a female.
Janet Winkler was dream-girl
pretty and sweeter than
just-turned apple cider.
But love and sexual desire
don’t always go hand in hand.
Luckily, Janet wasn’t looking
to get laid, which worked out
just fine. After a while,
though, I figured I should
be looking to get laid, like
every other guy my age. So
why did the thought of sex
with Janet—who I believed
I loved, even—not turn
me on one bit? Worse, why
did the idea of sex with her
Neanderthal jock big brother
turn me on so completely?
Not that Leon Winkler
is particularly special.
Not good-looking. Definitely
not the brightest bulb in the
socket. What he does have
going on is a fullback’s
physique. Pure muscle.
(That includes inside his
two-inch-thick skull.) I’d catch
myself watching his butt,
thinking it was perfect.
Something not exactly
hetero about that. Weird
thing was, that didn’t
bother me. Well, except for
the idea someone might
notice how my eyes often
fell toward the rhythm
of his exit. I never once
lusted for Janet like that.
I tried to let her down
easy. Gave her the ol’
“It’s not you, it’s me”
routine. But breaking up
is never an easy thing.
Not Easy for Janet
Who never saw it coming.
When I told her, she looked
as if she’d been run over
by a bulldozer. But you
told me you love me.
“I do love you,” I said.
“But things are, well …
confusing right now. You
know my mom is sick… .”
Can’t believe I used
her cancer as an excuse
to try and smooth things
over. And it worked, to
a point, anyway. At least
it gave Janet something
to hold on to. I know, Seth.
But don’t you think you
need someone to …?
The denial in my eyes
spoke clearly. She tried
another tactic, sliding
her arms around my neck,
seeking to comfort me. Then
she kissed me, and it was
a different kind of kiss
than any we’d shared
before. Swollen with desire.
Demanding. Lips still locked
to mine, she murmured, What
if I give you this …?
Her hand found my own,
urged it along her body’s
contours, all the way to
the place between her legs,
the one I had never asked for.
To be honest, I thought
about doing it. What if it
cured my confusion after all?
In the heat of the moment,
I even got hard, especially
when Janet touched me,
dropped onto her knees,
lowered my zipper, started
to do what I never suspected
she knew how to do. Yes …
No! Shouldn’t … How …?
The haze in my brain
cleared instantly, and I pushed
her away. “No. I can’t,”
was all I could say.
All Janet Could Say
Before she stalked off
was, Up yours! What are
you, anyway? Gay? Not
really expecting a response,
she pivoted sharply, went
in search of moral support.
So she never heard me say,
way under my breath, “Maybe
I am gay.” It was time, maybe
past, to find out for sure.
But not in Perry County,
Indiana, where if you’re
not related to someone,
you know someone who
is. All fact here is rooted
in gossip, and gossip can
prove deadly. Like last year,
little Billy Caldwell told Nate
Fisher that he saw Nate’s mom
kissing some guy out back
of a tavern. Total lie, but
that didn’t help Nate’s mom
when Nate’s dad went looking
for her, with a loaded shotgun.
Caught up to her after Mass
Sunday morning, and when
he was done, that church
parking lot looked like a street
in Baghdad. After, Billy felt
kind of bad. But he blamed
Nate’s dad one hundred percent.
Not Nate, who took out
his grief on Billy’s hunting
dog. That hound isn’t much
good for hunting now, not
with an eye missing. Since
I’d really like to hang on
to both of my eyes and all
of my limbs, I figured I’d
better find my true self
somewhere other than Perry
County. Best way I could
think of was through the
“be anyone you choose to be”
possibilities of online dating.
Granted, One Possibility
Was hooking up with a creep—
a pervert, looking to spread
some incurable disease to some
poor, horny idiot. I met more
than one pervert, but I never
let them do me. Nope, horny
or not, I wasn’t an idiot. No
homosexual yokel, anxious
enough to get laid to let any
guy who swung the correct
direction into my jeans.
I wanted my first real sex
to be with the right guy. Someone
experienced enough to teach
me, but not humiliate me.
Someone good-looking.
Young. Educated. A good
talker, yes, but a good listener,
too. Someone maybe even
hoping to fall in love.
Incredibly
Unimaginably, Loren turned
out to be all those things,
and I found him in Louisville!
He opened my eyes to a wider
world, introduced me to the
avant-garde—performance art,
nude theater, alternative
lit. He gave me a taste
for caviar, pâté, excellent
California cabernet. After
years of fried chicken and
Pabst Blue Ribbon, such
adjustments could only be
born of love. Truthfully,
love was unexpected. I’ve
said it before, and I’ll repeat,
I didn’t fall out of the tree
yesterday. But that first day,
when Loren opened his door,
I took one look and fell
flat on my face. Figuratively,
of course. I barely stumbled
as I crossed the threshold—
into his apartment, and into
the certainty of who I am.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Stumbling
I only have one question,
scraping the inside of me.
Answer it, and I will
stumble
back into her sh
adow.
Shut my mouth, never
ask again. I’ve tried to
ignore it, but it won’t go
away.
It haunts my dreams,
chases me through
every single day, and I
don’t
have the strength to
turn around. Face it
down. So please tell me
and I swear I’ll never
ask
again. It’s in your
power to make it go
away. And all you have
to do is tell me
why
you love her more.
Whitney
Living in Someone’s Shadow
Totally blows. Don’t get
me wrong. I love my sister.
Just not as much as my mother
loves her. Doesn’t matter how
hard I try, I can never quite
measure up to Kyra. I’m pretty.
She’s beautiful. I’m smart.
She’s a genius. I can sing
a tolerable alto. She’ll solo,
lead soprano, at the Met.
Mom’s own failed dreams
resurrected in Kyra.
And speaking of dreams,
mine are small. Shortsighted,
Mom calls them. Interior
design, maybe. Or fashion.
Kyra, however, is majoring
in International Relations.
I don’t get it. What does
she want to be? A spy?
I thought things would get
better when she went off
to Vassar. Two thousand,
three hundred and fifty-six
miles away from Santa Cruz,
the pretentious California beach
town where we live. But no
amount of miles can make
her shadow disappear. It’s
only longer, stretched across
the continent. Her on one side.
Me stuck fast on the other.
It’s Not So Bad
When my dad’s home. He’s an
investment banker in the fine
old city of San Francisco.
Too far to commute every day,
so he keeps an apartment there
four nights a week, comes home
for regular three-day weekends.
Used to be regular, anyway.
My dad’s my hero, and when
he’s home he makes Mom stay
off my ass. I don’t say words
like “ass” when he’s around.
Don’t want him to think I’m
a “foul-mouthed bitch,” as my
mom enjoys calling me. Wonder
where I got the mouth from.
Anyway, Daddy loves me,
and if he happens to play
favorites, the dice usually roll
my way. Probably just making
up for Mom. But hey, that’s
okay. One out of two ain’t bad.