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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