The Gunman

by Steven Sanchez

Imagine:

                              the four chambers of my heart

                                                                           each loaded with a bullet,

                              each beat another revolution

                                                            in my chest,

my throat

                              a barrel,

                                                            my curled tongue

                                                                                                         a trigger.

                                                            I believe

                                                                           in spirits,

in every fag

                              and queer

                                                            I’ve heard

                                                                           and allowed

                                                                                                         to pass through my body

                                                            and into the next.

I believe

                              in possession,

                                                            believe each metal slug

                              entering our bodies

                                                                                          tonight is a history

                              we can’t escape,

                                                                                          forged in factories

                              across this country

                                                                                          by men

                                                            who feel threatened

                                                                                                                        by love.

And when I stare

                                                            into my reflection

                                                                                          one last time tonight,

                              I know each pupil

will become an exit

                                                                                          wound.

                                                                                                                        I’ve spent my life

                              learning to lie

                                                            to myself,

                                                                                          but tonight

the truth

                              will enter my body,

                                                            will hurt,

                                                                                          will kill,

                                                                                                                        will leave

an echo.

Originally published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, August 3, 2016

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.

My Voice

by Oscar Wilde

Within the restless, hurried, modern world
    We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I,
And now the white sails of our ships are furled,
    And spent the lading of our argosy

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
    For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my lip’s vermilion
    And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee
    No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
    That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.

Never to Dream of Spiders

by Audre Lorde

Time collapses between the lips of strangers
my days collapse into a hollow tube
soon implodes against now
like an iron wall
my eyes are blocked with rubble
a smear of perspectives
blurring each horizon
in the breathless precision of silence
one word is made.

Once the renegade flesh was gone
fall air lay against my face
sharp and blue as a needle
but the rain fell through October
and death lay    a condemnation
within my blood.

The smell of your neck in August
a fine gold wire bejeweling war
all the rest lies
illusive as a farmhouse
on the other side of a valley
vanishing in the afternoon.

Day three    day four    day ten
the seventh step
a veiled door leading to my golden anniversary
flameproofed free-paper shredded
in the teeth of a pillaging dog
never to dream of spiders
and when they turned the hoses upon me
a burst of light.

Audre Lorde, “Never to Dream of Spiders”
The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde
Copyright © 1997 by Audre Lorde.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
     or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
     and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound, though the blue jays
     carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
     the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after awhile I’m pale with longing
     for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen.

and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
     of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
     little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
     one boot to another—why don’t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
     of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,
     I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.

from West Wind, Mariner Books ©1997

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.

Why We Must Struggle

by Kay Ryan

If we have not struggled
as hard as we can
at our strongest
how will we sense
the shape of our losses
or know what sustains
us longest or name
what change costs us,
saying how strange
it is that one sector
of the self can step in
for another in trouble,
how loss activates
a latent double, how
we can feed
as upon nectar
upon need?

from Say Uncle, Grove Press, ©2000

Most Poetry will post a poem by a LGBTQ+ poet, selected by our members, each day through the month of August.