12-18-2024
Patrick Grace
FULLBLOWN
blond wind susurrus
mimic I hear you
air throws its dusk and I colour sepia
along the unlit road—
barefoot razed field
colts gambol geese V and echo
far from the wreck room shivoo
my insides chime their separate lakes
fullblown ache in summer the girl on TV
cries to the girl on TV
my brother blows up pixelated cities on TV
I am not on TV I am not
but I want to
tumble the golden droke
sky a vermilion scythe I am not a girl but I want to
fullblown the boy in red shorts
opens a window a space in my chest
is this what they call out of body
falling inward and splitting my own rope
tomorrow’s fear is tomorrow’s face of my body
my body thistles in my devil in red shorts and climbing
black walnut trunk without words
blond wind susurrus mimic I hear you
drumming down
balloon and blow away
boy above boy below boy above boy
below boy above boy below boy above
it’s impossible not to cross hot tar
and think this is heaven, all this burning
IT’S LIKE THAT, IS IT
I come for the free coffee
but stay for the men committed
to the men committed to their wives.
It’s simple, unsinging the ring
until she’s pregnant with his kid.
I grew my hair to the shoulder bone
but not my breasts. I hacked off nothing.
I disintegrated in the mirror.
The steam pulled back to reveal
my never self, my never person.
Pour me another, I think
I’m just under the limit
to hold lightning in my veins.
The loneliest homos
are the ones I sing awake
when the rain asks
if they’ll stay till late morning.
I’d like to tell him
this is the last time,
turning the same corner
of what could be versus what is.
ARTHUR
I have the best memory
of what it means
to be gay
at the end
of summer.
By gay I mean
wondrous,
the sun
hitting
our thankless bodies
on an Okanagan
lakeside dock.
Wasps warmed
to the cedarwood.
We were equal
parts
queer and water,
loosening canoe ropes
off their cleats,
hands full
of boyish desire
in the late air.
The other kids
in the valley
mastered archery lessons
across the lake.
I slipped your shift off.
Kokanee salmon
disturbed the water’s surface.
Somewhere
a voice yelled
bullseye,
the word
lifting across
the volcanic cliff
face.
-from Deviant, selected by PoemoftheWeek.com Fall 2024 Guest Editor, Hollay Ghadery
Patrick Grace is an author and teacher from Vancouver, BC. His poems have been published widely in Canadian literary magazines, including Best Canadian Poetry, EVENT, The Fiddlehead, The Malahat Review, and Prairie Fire. He is the author of two chapbooks: a blurred wind swirls back for you (Turret House Press, 2023), and Dastardly (Anstruther Press, 2021). His debut poetry collection, Deviant (University of Alberta Press, 2024), explores intimacy and fear within gay relationships. He moonlights as the managing editor of Plenitude Magazine. Follow him @thepoetpatrick.
