Low Pile Fragments The words are plucking right there at my teeth, crowded inside standing nervously like nape hairs that have known Fear before Sitting in crossed-leg confession to my best blanket friend: a gay late night after-party : memory fractures drunken, naked hot tub departure when they find out; start in not a real man : pussies are gross : we can’t sit in this dirty water i see my hands on the carpet— low pile, beige carpet— see them tensed, weight bearing raw knee abrasions; scarred for months. gonorrhea from . . . . . . where? i see my hands on the carpet Someone is kneeling behind me someone enters the room, sees Leaves. resisting force, Someone’s hips pounding as cocained hearts; i’m there i’m not there i see my hands on the carpet : bang bang bang bang ecstasy and booze? drugged? immobile. i feel nothing. Just my hands low pile carpet : In silence, he bends at the waist, burrowing his bald head in my lap a monk in wordless prayer. I was the boy burying his feelings arm’s-length underground, so our sorrow would not have a chance to grow I gathered his heaviest pieces in my arms, those dampened elder tulips split open with the dwindling rains of Spring. And we danced to shift weight He made love to me there, in the day-lit room holding my hand through full-body pleasurequakes crafting a juxtaposition: Then and Now :wide as my weary, wintered sea — He knew — but said not a word, just kissed me in his arms and loved away what hurt just loved it all away ♨ Pink God gave me roses pink roses on my birthday And God watched as I learned to grow thorns; protection proving more critical than care Weeds creeping around stems as a slower kind of fatal embrace God was in my garden when my lover felt the velvet layers gingerly rubbing petals between his fingertips he comes to me he arrives with/in me Oh my, God was in the garden ♨ Independence Day "Enchanté, come in" tête-à-tête with my new Grindr conquest His raised tongue forms the tip-less roof for Zhuh to speak my grateful name I learned fast, around here Jean’s call themselves Jeen in Non-Haitian company Stranger casual on my couch, chiseled like a legend telling me about his family’s Kreyòl Ayisyen [Haitian Creole] Us second gen kids, we don’t know too much not like the old folks want us to Told me Haitian Independence Day was yesterday barbecues and block parties— facts I didn’t know because je n’avais pas besoin de savoir [I didn’t need to know] He eyed my wispy wrist resting soft like Québec snow his brawny arm in ancestors’ richly earthen hue, these pieces of Us intertwined like an atlas we’d cracked open and laid flat upon the table His gaze rose, seizing my eyes “kind of interesting that today we’re sitting here together” and together we fell motionless and felt that apart
—Submitted on 02/13/2023
Jean-Denis Couillard Hale (they/them) is an emerging queer, non-binary trans poet originally from Vermont. Their poetry is forthcoming in The Write Launch. Couillard Hale holds a master’s in public health from the UMass Amherst.
Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication. Click here to submit.
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