Erection
I wanted them bad: the mail-order x-ray glasses
that looked straight through clothes to bodies–
of those in my class, of the old-lady teacher
who wore miniskirts and an opened blouse, of grownups
whose eyes stopped meeting mine. I wanted to see
a privacy clothes know: the geography of the possible.
I waited.
And when the glasses hadn't come, and each day's
disappointment stung like slaps,
I worried that other people could see hard-ons hidden
by long-tailed shirts worn outside the pants,
by a walk-become-a-race, or by the distraction
of stubborness and anger. And arrogance.
Wondered if they could see how timid the penis
otherwise seemed, how fat still my chest was,
making improbable breasts. Wondered if they could
see the tenseness of no-more-but-not-yet,
of sleep-erupting dreams having nothing to do with the body
and everything, desire becoming specific.
And when the glasses still hadn't come
and there was cause to doubt their existence,
I began to imagine what I might see,
bodies nothing like those I have seen.
Allegiance
I loved the Supremes as much as baseball
at eleven, my first base plate a stage.
So in those summertime lulls in action,
all base hits easily thwarted, I sang
the way Diana Ross did– rare and
heavy-lidded, often about some love
that did her wrong. The background girls concurred.
And I noticed myself changing pronouns,
suddenly aware that the other boys
listened closely to their first baseman,
more now than he had, reminding him
how necessary practice is with pronouns,
converting he to she at every turn;
otherwise a guy on the other team
might get past you, and then another one
could bat him in, the other side winning
and your whole team holding you responsible.
